


To Everything, There is a Season

by shadowed_sunsets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Childhood, Family, Friendship, Gen, Police, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Act I: This is the story of Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood together, back when Sherlock still looked up to and his world revolved around his brother. When Sherlock lived like he wanted to and only his brother understood.<br/>Of course, it couldn't last forever; no matter how much he wanted.</p><p>A take on Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood, written pre- series 2, in vignette's from Mycroft's POV.</p><p>Act II: Having decided he doesn't need anyone and can survive perfectly well on his own, Sherlock strikes out into the world. He hits a few bumps and lows before finally finding the one person he's really been looking for all along.</p><p>Sherlock's journey through uni, meeting Greg Lestrade, and then stumbling upon John Watson; written pre- series 2, in vignette's from various characters' POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These four chapters cover the Holmes brothers childhood together. There are more chapters of vignette's from Sherlock's uni years to when he met John, but those come later. Hope you enjoy! Feedback appreciated!

When Mycroft was first introduced to his brother it was after coming home late from a particularly awful piano lesson only to see someone else in his customary place on Mummy’s lap.

He paused in the open doorway, taking in the sight. Father was standing beside a chair placed in front of the large window, and Mummy was sitting in the chair looking as perfect as she always seemed to him- her dark hair curled and pulled back, barely brushing the shoulders of her favorite pale violet dress.

From this angle, Mycroft couldn’t tell exactly what Mummy was holding. It looked like a bundle of blankets. But why would Mummy be smiling in that adoring way at blankets?

His father noticed him standing uncertainly by the door, and suddenly Mycroft was the focus of that forceful gaze before it softened slightly.

“Mycroft, it’s good to see you’re home,” his father greeted with what was considered warmth from him. “Come in, your mother and I have a surprise for you.” He reached over and gently fingered one of Mummy’s curls- the most intimate Mycroft had seen them in years; often they were never in the same room. “A happy surprise.”

Doubtful, Mycroft slowly made his way into the room. He set his piano and school books down on the table next to the door before walking over to Mummy and Father.

Mummy finally looked up from the blankets in her arms as Mycroft stopped near the two of them. She gave him her warm, kind smile, the kind that always made him feel better, and asked softly, “Do you want to see?”

She sounded excited, and was already moving the bundle towards him, so Mycroft nodded and moved closer. Now standing right in front of Mummy’s slipper-clad feet, Mycroft stretched up on his toes in order to see better.

Just before he adjusted his balance to steady himself, Mycroft placed his hands lightly on Mummy’s knees, making sure not to use much of his weight. He knew he probably looked quite a sight, using Mummy to prop himself up, and he wondered if Father was laughing at him.

To his confusion, it really did seem to be just a bundle of blankets in Mummy’s arms. But then she turned it gently towards him, and suddenly light blue eyes were staring up at him.

Mycroft rocked back in surprise, then moved forward to get closer. Mummy even lowered the blankets right onto her lap again so he could see better.

Those light eyes met his again, staring at him just as intently. When he tore his eyes away, Mycroft took in the light dusting of dark curls the color of Mummy’s on top of the baby’s head, and its small body wrapped carefully in a blue blanket. He supposed it was rather cute, for a baby.

As Mycroft was leaning over to look at this strange and new little person, he felt something brush very lightly against his arm. He looked down and saw a small chubby fist lightly bump his arm as it waved around in the air.

Above him Mummy laughed in amusement- her real laugh, not the one she used in public- and said, “I think he likes you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft glanced up at her with a small smile before looking down again to meet those light eyes. They were transfixing somehow, and he felt an odd warmth building in his chest. “What’s his name?” Mycroft asked quietly, reaching forward and gently wrapping his hand around the much smaller one. Almost at once the baby’s entire tiny hand was wrapped around his thumb in a surprisingly strong grip.

This time his father was the one to speak. “This is your brother Sherlock.”

Obviously Mummy and Father hadn’t thought to spare his brother the difficulty of having a strange name. But maybe Sherlock would manage to live up to it.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted warmly, the name feeling odd but right on his lips. ‘Welcome to the Holmes family,’ he added silently, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘It’s a bit hectic.’

~~~

Mycroft was interrupted in the middle of his reading when his book began jerking up and down while at the same time the bed moved beneath him. He set the book down open on his lap and scowled at his younger brother.

“Sherlock, you know not to interrupt me when I’m reading,” Mycroft scolded as Sherlock unsteadily crawled over to where he was sitting up against the pillows.

But the younger boy just smiled cheekily up at him as he settled in next to Mycroft. In the past few months he’d begun to settle into a slimmer form- taking after Mummy, but his face was still rounded. He had also started wearing trousers and shirts instead of the one-piece outfits Mummy had bought for him, and today was no different. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was trying to imitate him for some reason.

Mycroft looked down at his brother who was now leaning against his side and peering interestedly at the book resting on his lap. “This isn’t a book you’d like, Sherlock,” Mycroft told him, only to be amused by the resulting scowl aimed at him. “It’s much too old for you.”

But, as usual, Sherlock refused to be swayed. He tugged insistently on Mycroft’s sleeve then nodded his head at the book.

Used to his brother’s stubbornness by now, and wanting to avoid a possible tantrum- Sherlock had already learnt to pout enough to get his way most of the time- Mycroft gave in.

“All right,” he sighed as he shifted to a more comfortable position and to give Sherlock a better view. “I wish you would start talking though, this ongoing silence is getting annoying.”

As usual Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he just moved closer until they appeared to be fused together.

Mycroft found himself smiling down at his little brother, and carefully wrapped an arm around the small body as he began to read aloud from his book on mysteries solved by modern science.

_ _ _ _

He knew his parents were beginning to worry about how Sherlock was taking so long to begin talking. Mycroft himself had been an early talker, speaking in near complete sentences by close to his third birthday. So his parents had expected Sherlock to follow the same path, as unlikely as that was.

The specialists Mummy had consulted- in secret and only out of concern for her son- told her Sherlock appeared to be developing perfectly normally and may simply just begin talking late. But Mummy hadn’t been appeased by this, and every time she was free from social obligations she called Sherlock to her rooms where- both subtly and unsubtly- she tried to cajole Sherlock into talking.

Mycroft understood that Mummy did this with Sherlock’s best interests at heart, but on the days his brother came to him instead of locking himself in his room, he saw how annoyed and frustrated Sherlock was. Mycroft had a feeling Sherlock knew and understood much more than he let on and was frustrated by how the people around him were trying to push him.

So, even if it meant putting his schoolwork aside for a time, Mycroft tried his best to look after Sherlock and especially to soothe his frustration. He didn’t think it could be much fun being left in the house with the housekeeper while Mummy and Father (when he was home) were occupied in their rooms and Mycroft was away at school.

Sometimes it wasn’t so much of a hassle looking after his brother as he’d imagined.

~~~~

Almost as soon as Mycroft exited the car that had picked him up from school, Sherlock’s now almost gangly form barreled into his legs.

“Careful, Sherlock,” he warned, surprised by just how fast Sherlock had been moving. Mycroft set his schoolbag on the ground next to him and gently placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying him. “What’s the hurry?”

But Sherlock just impatiently tried to clasp one of Mycroft’s hands in both of his much smaller ones. “My’cof,” he insisted, the closest approximation of Mycroft’s name he could manage.

Mycroft had seen several times before the bright-eyed eagerness and smile now gracing the features Mummy had taken to describing as angel-like, and it was often a sign his brother was up to something. He supposed Sherlock was, as people said, a rather adorable child. His hair had grown long enough to fall in his face at times, especially when he ducked his head, and Sherlock’s sky-colored eyes and still softened cheekbone structure only heightened the image. Sherlock himself seemed to alternate between scowling whenever his appearance was praised, and taking advantage of it.

Yet more importantly, “You spoke. You finally spoke.”

Sherlock paused in his insistent tugging at Mycroft’s hand to treat his brother to the ‘you’re being stupid’ look he was still perfecting. Mycroft didn’t see it as often as his parents or the housekeeper typically did when they were trying to baby Sherlock, but sometimes Sherlock did get annoyed with him.

“Come on,” Sherlock insisted again, using all his strength to tug at Mycroft’s hand.

It probably looked ridiculous, Sherlock leading Mycroft by his hand around the side of the house to the backyard, but Mycroft followed anyway. He was still reeling over the fact that after worrying about his constantly silent brother, Sherlock had finally spoken. Yet it seemed very like his brother that Sherlock had decided to speak when he wanted to and out of excitement, not out of necessity or because someone wanted him to. Mycroft didn’t find the fact that Sherlock’s first word had been an approximation of his name as surprising, since he had been the one spending the most time with Sherlock- even if children’s typical first words of ‘mama’ or ‘dada’ were often spoken a year earlier.

Sherlock had pulled him across the lawn before finally stopping at the base of one of the trees that shadowed most of the lawn. “Sherlock,” Mycroft began confused, “why are-?”

But Sherlock tugged on his hand again, quieting him, and then pointed up into the tree. “Look!”

Mycroft lifted his head and tried to follow Sherlock’s finger. “I don’t see-“ he replied as he looked over the tree. But then Mycroft noticed what he suspected had caught Sherlock’s attention. “The bee hive?” He asked, looking back down at his brother.

Sherlock’s face nearly glowed as he nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Like the book!”

Silently amused by his brother’s excitement, Mycroft thought back to the many books he had read to Sherlock recently. It didn’t help either that Sherlock had lately become obsessed with bees, trying to learn all he could about them.

Mycroft opened his mouth to ask Sherlock, but his brother’s short attention span had already been distracted. He was standing almost directly under the bee hive and squinting up at it with a determined, curious expression.

Luckily there weren’t any bees flying about just then, but Mycroft still quickly took Sherlock’s hand again. His brother glanced briefly at him but then looked back at the hive again.

The two of them stood in silence for several minutes until Sherlock turned back to Mycroft again. “Up,” he demanded with another tug.

Mycroft stared at his brother, just as surprised as he usually was around Sherlock. “You want me to lift you up there?”

Sherlock nodded rapidly, with the large eyes and slight pout he used when trying to get his own way. The act had never worked on Mycroft before, yet Sherlock was still trying to manipulate him.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”

The light eyes narrowed in response while the pout only grew in strength. “Wanna see,” Sherlock not-quite whined, looking like he would stomp his foot any time now.

“No, Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated in his sternest voice. He wasn’t quite as good as father at forbidding things, not yet, but it came in useful with Sherlock.

His brother glared up at him through his fringe- it probably needed to be trimmed soon- and asked petulantly, “But why?”

Mycroft had feared hearing those words from Sherlock. He’d suspected that as soon as Sherlock learned the question it would open the floodgates for the constant demand of why; he just hadn’t expected it to begin so soon. “It’s too dangerous,” Mycroft found himself repeating yet again, even if it wasn’t quite an answer, “you might get hurt.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face clearly asked, “So?”

Before Mycroft could begin to explain why it was even more important not to do something if it was dangerous, at least not without him nearby, the doors at the back of the house opened. As they both turned to look, the housekeeper moved to stand in the doorway. She waved at the two of them and called, “your mother wants to see you boys, you’d better hurry.”

The housekeeper sounded oddly stressed, making Mycroft wonder if Mummy was in one of her moods today. Sherlock sighed quietly, and Mycroft turned in time to see Sherlock glance up at the upstairs windows. Mummy had been even more absent from Sherlock’s life then she had his own, so every time Sherlock saw her he experienced a not-quite visible struggle between excitement and discomfort.

Mycroft gently squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and his brother tore his eyes from the windows to him- the worry fading in the transition. Instead Sherlock smiled and then began hesitantly leading him back towards the house.

As they walked through the door, the housekeeper cast a doubtful look at Sherlock’s clothes. They did look faintly wrinkled, and Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had tried to climb the tree and get close to the hive on his own before he had come home.

“What have you been up to my dear?” She asked warmly, used to finding Sherlock in the midst of unusual activities for a child his age, and in untidy clothes. Since he wasn’t quite able to read yet, although Mycroft was trying to teach him, Sherlock had been finding other- often mischievous- ways to amuse himself. One day, Mycroft had even come home from school to find Sherlock sitting on the piano bench trying to mimic him when he practiced. Sherlock wasn’t quite hitting the keys, but Mycroft had still hurried across the room to stop his brother and try to teach him how to properly play. Sherlock hadn’t quite understood, but it was still an effort.

This time Sherlock raised his head to smile at the housekeeper.

“Playin’,” he announced happily. “By the hive.”

Just as Mycroft had done, she stared at Sherlock before her face transformed with happiness. “It’s good to finally hear your voice, dear,” the housekeeper told him, her eyes slightly wet.

Sherlock must have noticed that, because his smile faded somewhat. Mycroft had a feeling his brother was annoyed that the housekeeper- and him to a lesser extent- were making a big deal out of what Sherlock must see as nothing important. Sherlock had likely been able to talk for a while now; he’d just chosen himself when he wanted to start speaking aloud. And, for some reason, Sherlock had wanted his first words directed towards Mycroft.

Sherlock tugged lightly on his hand, silently indicated that he wanted to leave. Mycroft understood and, after saying goodbye to the housekeeper, walked with Sherlock towards the front stairs. By this time his brother could easily walk up and down the stairs on his own, but Sherlock almost clung to Mycroft’s hand as they made their slow progress up the stairs.

The two of them paused in front of Mummy’s rooms at the very end of the hall just above the greenhouse. And, after glancing down at Sherlock, Mycroft raised his hand to knock on the double doors.

Mummy’s voice was faintly muffled as she called them in, as if she was preoccupied with something else.

Mycroft turned the handle and gently pushed the door open. It creaked a little on its hinges as it swung open to reveal the elaborate room Mummy used as a dressing/sitting room.

Mummy herself was sitting on a bench covered in green silk with a wooden base and legs. Sherlock was wearing one of her most elaborate dressing gowns in purple and red silk with a velvet neck and cuffs, the fabric tied tightly around her thin, perfectly shaped body. Her own dark curls were carefully half-pinned up on the top of her head while she tried to arrange the rest of her hair with the pins sticking out of her for once lipstick-less mouth.

Instead of turning her head to actually look, her eyes found them in the mirror standing by the door. Her dark eyes lit up at the sight of them, and she quickly removed the pins from her mouth to replace them on the dressing table. “Mycroft, Sherlock, come in dears,” she greeted, leaving her hair alone and turning to face them.

Sherlock finally released Mycroft’s hand and moved slowly into the room. He didn’t quite run- but it was faster than he usually walked- to Mummy who greeted him warmly then pulled him up into her lap despite her dressing gown. She made a teasing complaint about how heavy he was getting, which got a brief scowl from Sherlock, then wrapped her arms around him.

Mycroft came to stand just in front of them, waiting and watching. Mummy finally raised her head to smile warmly at him. “I hope your brother has been looking after you, Sherlock.”

“I have-“ Mycroft began to respond, but then Sherlock decided to speak up.

“We looked at the hive,” Sherlock told her excitedly, looking up at her with a bright smile. “The one in the tree.”

Mummy was not usually lost for words; she seemed to always have the right ones at hand. But this time a few moments passed before a bright smile broke across her face and her arms tightened even more around Sherlock’s small body. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered softly, rested her head against the top of his.

Sherlock squirmed slightly in her tighter embrace, but he didn’t quite try to get away. Instead he looked almost pleadingly at his brother.

Mycroft just smiled back at him, seeing this as something Sherlock had to withstand for at least a few minutes. Sherlock had to have known delaying speaking had been causing Mummy to almost constantly worry for more than a year now. Mycroft- mostly- understood why Sherlock had done so, but he still didn’t think Sherlock have worried Mummy so much.

But eventually Mycroft decided to rescue his brother. “Mummy,” he began cautiously, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Why did you want to talk to us?”

The reminder made her loosen her arms but she still held him carefully on her lap. “Oh, yes. Of course. I had hoped to spend a quiet night with the two of you, but I’m afraid something has happened.”

To Mummy’s credit she did truly sound sorry, and held Sherlock a little closer. A quiet night with Mummy was a rare treat since she was away so often at social functions. But of course what was probably another event of some kind had interrupted that treat- even on the night of such an important occasion. Yet it did explain why she was in her dressing gown and doing her hair and makeup so early in the afternoon.

On her lap the beginnings of a major pout, or sulk more likely, was growing on Sherlock’s face at the prospect of losing a night with Mummy. He hadn’t been able to spend as much time with her as he should have- every little boy needed their mum. And while she seemed to be happy, overjoyed really, about Sherlock finally talking, Mummy appeared to be continuing with her evening plans.

Instead of dissolving into a sulk like he’d be threatening, Sherlock did his best to turn himself around. He wasn’t very coordinated and nearly fell off as he turned, his brow furrowed with concentration. When Sherlock managed to more or less face Mummy, he leaned forward and clutched at the fabric of the dressing gown at her waist and above her heart.

Despite his age Sherlock had never been one to cry, even with fake tears. He might pout or sulk or throw tantrums, especially to try and get his way, but he never cried or dissolved into tears. That was why Mycroft was surprised when he heard Sherlock whisper quietly, his voice shaking a little, “don’t go, Mummy.”

Mycroft heard Mummy’s breath catch a little at Sherlock’s plea, and her features softened. “I’m sorry sweetheart,” she apologized while gently running a comforting hand up and down his back. “But this is important to me.” Mummy then gently took his hands and peeled them off of her dressing gown. She looked down at him, staring into the light eyes of her youngest son, and promised, “I’ll be home in time to read you your new book.” Mummy told Sherlock warmly, running her fingers gently through his curls.

Sherlock seemed to be mostly appeased by this since he rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and then smiled shakily at her. But he didn’t say anything when Mummy gently but firmly helped him down from her lap, or when Mycroft took his hand and led Sherlock back out of the room, stopping only at the door to call goodbye.

It wasn’t until it was Sherlock’s bedtime and Mummy still hadn’t returned that Sherlock finally let Mycroft into his room. And after he helped his brother into his pajamas and tucked him in, Sherlock asked Mycroft to read the new book Mummy had bought for him several days earlier.

Of course he did feel guilty reading the book Mummy had promised to read Sherlock. At first he’d tried to convince his brother to read another book and wait for Mummy, but Sherlock had threatened to throw a tantrum worse then any other before, so Mycroft had quickly given-in. Sherlock had adapted the Holmesian habit of never actually yelling or raising your voice; instead he was on his way to perfecting the technique of scowling, with his arms crossed, and giving the unfortunate person a certain look from beneath his fringe. So far it had proven successful, even without any words.

~~*~~ *~~

Books were quickly becoming Sherlock’s favorite thing, and he loved being read to. Mycroft was sure that as soon as Sherlock learned to read- which probably wouldn’t be very long- Sherlock would insist on reading all of them himself. There was also a special shelf in his room that was only for Sherlock’s favorites. Some of them were typical children’s stories, but most were more educational.

The next day when Mummy returned, she immediately set about finding a tutor for Sherlock. At first she considered Mycroft’s tutor from years before, but then she seemed to think her two boys were too different for it to work.

While Mummy searched for a tutor, Mycroft took it upon himself to teach Sherlock. As soon as he came home from school, and right before dinner, he and Sherlock went to his room. There Mycroft painstakingly taught his brother his numbers and letters, followed quickly by how to write simple words and spell his own name. Sherlock was a quick study just as Mycroft had expected, and seemed to absorb information as quickly as he could.

Mummy then- in-between her social functions- finally found someone who she thought would be the perfect tutor for her Sherlock.

The first one lasted an entire week before Sherlock managed to run him off. The man practically stormed out of the house, yelling about how impossible that child was.

The other two Mummy employed in the short time before Sherlock began school lasted for four days, and then only two.

It was then that Mummy said she washed her hands of the matter, and Mycroft resumed teaching Sherlock. By then Sherlock was able to read full sentences, and together they worked through Sherlock’s many books.

As treats, at bedtime when he tucked his brother in Mycroft would read to Sherlock from some of his older books. They fascinated Sherlock, and often he’d try to read a few sentences before giving up in frustration and lying back to just let Mycroft read to him. Sherlock found it annoying when he wasn’t able to do something- even given his age- so Mycroft was never very surprised on days when he came home from school to find his books in a different order then how he’d left them.

His brother could be very persistent when trying to overcome something.

And on the day Sherlock managed to slowly but correctly read an entire paragraph from one of Mycroft’s books, he had never been so proud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: These four chapters cover the Holmes brothers childhood together. There are more chapters of vignette's from Sherlock's uni years to when he met John, but those come later. However, all are completely written. Hope you enjoy! Feedback appreciated!

The week before Sherlock was to start school, he ran the household ragged with his excitement. He refused to sleep- often took ages to be put to bed, constantly pestered Mycroft with questions about his own school days, and tended to rush around the house and yard… underfoot of everyone else. 

On the actual morning Sherlock started, Mycroft had to go in early so he wasn’t able to see Sherlock off- or go with him like he’d wanted. The housekeeper was supposed to take Sherlock, but that morning Mummy had decided she wanted to instead. The last Mycroft saw as the car drove off was Sherlock waving enthusiastically while Mummy held his other hand, looking vaguely distracted.

When Mycroft returned home from a particularly taxing day (not made much better by a difficult lesson), he had expected Sherlock to come barreling at him as soon as he stepped out of the car, ready to regale his brother with stories of his first day of school.

But no one met him when he arrived in front of the house. Instead everything seemed to be unnaturally quiet.

Sherlock wasn’t waiting for him just inside the house either; not even in his customary position five steps up from the bottom of the stairs. It was then that Mycroft truly started to worry; earlier Sherlock had been so excited, but now he was nowhere to be found.

Mycroft made his way slowly up the stairs, turning towards Sherlock’s room. He tried not to worry, but it became difficult when he saw their housekeeper standing outside Sherlock’s door looking nearly beside herself with worry.

“Please, Sherlock,” she called through the door, her voice slightly higher than usual. “You must come out of your room.” When there was no answer she added, “Your brother will be home soon.”

The housekeeper sighed unhappily at the silence from behind the door. As she turned away, she noticed Mycroft standing a few yards away and a smile broke across her face.

“Mycroft, sir! Wonderful!” The housekeeper exclaimed delightedly before she rushed over to him. “I need your help with your brother,” she said, drawing Mycroft over to the door.

Mycroft adjusted the books under his arm, making sure he wasn’t about to drop them. “What has he done?” Mycroft asked warily, eyeing the door. “Sherlock did go to school, didn’t he?”

“Oh yes, yes he did,” the housekeeper quickly reassured with a small smile. “But then he ran upstairs and locked himself in his room.” She paused, her expression regretful. “I haven’t been able to talk him out.”

Mycroft lightly patted her shoulder and smiled in the comforting way he’d seen Mummy use. “It’s all right; I can take it from here.” He stepped closer to the door. “Thank you for your help.”

She nodded in response, flicked a worried glance at the door, and then walked down the hallway.

Mycroft turned his eyes to the door and raised his hand to knock twice. “Sherlock?” He called inquiringly.

“Go away!” His brother’s voice bit out irritably, slightly muffled through the door.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sternly, his voice quiet but firm. “Let me in.” If Sherlock was in one of his moods, Mycroft was likely the only person he’d want to see. Mycroft was the only one who knew the best way of dealing with Sherlock when he became like this.

There was a long moment of silence from behind the door as his brother considered. But then, just as he’d expected, Mycroft heard the whisper of socks on carpet inside the room. A few moments later there was an audible click as the lock was disengaged.

Mycroft let out a soft sigh of relief at the sound. But he waited for Sherlock to return to where he’d been- either the bed or the window seat, Mycroft expected- before he turned the doorknob and pushed open the door.

The room was the usual mess Sherlock left it in, with books stacked next to the bed in designated piles (read, unread, want to read), pillows strewn about the floor- from when Sherlock laid on them instead of the more comfortable bed- mixing with the clothes that had also been tossed around (likely left over from the lengthy ordeal consisting of trying to find the perfect outfit). Sherlock still hadn’t learned to pick up after himself.

Mycroft pushed the door closed behind him then walked further inside. Sherlock was curled up in his favorite place on the window-seat next to his bed, wrapped in a blue blanket usually at the end of his bed. The curtains were pulled back and Sherlock was staring out the window, head turned away from Mycroft.

Mycroft picked his way across the littered carpet, looking down disapprovingly at the wrinkled, tossed aside clothes. He stopped just in front of the window-seat and said softly, “Sherlock…”

His brother let out a shaky breath and wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to hide what Mycroft suspected were tears. Sherlock hadn’t quite learned how to control his emotions yet, but at the same time hated letting anyone see him cry. He also already hated anyone thinking he was weak, and constantly strove to prove himself.

Mycroft didn’t think it was good for a five year old, but Sherlock had also inherited the Holmes stubbornness.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock commented sharply, still looking out the window with his chin now propped on his hand. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what, Sherlock?” Mycroft clarified, briefly startled. In the past few months Sherlock had proven himself to be becoming increasingly perceptive, able to make connections most children his age couldn’t even see. Mycroft had been encouraging this behavior in Sherlock since the boy seemed to enjoy it, but Sherlock hadn’t been able to tell what Mycroft was doing without looking before.

However, Mycroft ignored it since it was obviously an attempt to distract him. Instead he asked quietly, being very careful not to push his brother too far, “How was your first day of school?”

Mycroft saw the blanket shift a little as Sherlock appeared to curl his hand into a fist. But his voice was level as he answered, “It was fine.”

It was honestly like pulling teeth sometimes. “Did you learn anything interesting?” Mycroft asked, continuing the unnecessary and round-about conversation.

Sherlock’s small form tensed for several seconds, saying more than any words would. Then he let out a long breath and said, his voice cracking only a little, “No, not really.”

He was definitely lying; something had happened. But it seemed Mycroft would have to find a way to coax it out of Sherlock- it was unlikely his brother would tell on his own. Mycroft tried another line of questioning. “Your classmates? What are they like?”

A soft scoffing sound escaped Sherlock’s lips. Then he finally tore his gaze away from the window to stare at the wall opposite him. “They’re idiots,” Sherlock eventually said in a harsh tone. He pressed his lips together. “Total idiots.”

Hearing those words from the lips of his brother, who had never said any such thing before, was what made Mycroft decide to stop skirting the issue and just jump in. Sherlock may have often been annoyed with Mummy and Father, or frustrated with Mycroft and the housekeeper, but he hadn’t ever called them names or insulted them so harshly. With the wrath of an older sibling, Mycroft suddenly wanted to punish the children who dared to judge and make fun of his younger brother.

Since those children weren’t within his grasp at the moment and his brother was, Mycroft chose to attend to Sherlock instead. He set his books down on the ground amongst the chaos and walked over to sit down next to Sherlock. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t move.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft wheedled softly, gazing down at his brother. “What happened? What did the other children do?”

Sherlock’s attempt to be brave lasted only a few more seconds before his need to be consoled and share what happened won out. In one swift motion he flung away the blanket and sprung for Mycroft.

Sherlock buried his face in the cloth of Mycroft’s sleeve, trying to fight back tears. “They didn’t like me, said I was show-showing off.” After stumbling over the word, Sherlock swallowed noisily and his fingers tightened on Mycroft’s sleeve. “And pre-preten-“

Mycroft placed a hand on Sherlock’s back and coaxed gently, “It’s alright. Try to work it out Sherlock.”

While his brother could speak intelligently most of the time, he still had trouble pronouncing three or more syllable words. So Mycroft had taught him to remain calm and work it out instead of clamming up in frustration. The method worked more often than not, and it seemed to this time as well.

Sherlock shifted slightly, and Mycroft suspected his brother’s eyes were tightly closed and his brow furrowed in concentration. “Pre-preten-pretending. Pretending,” Sherlock slowly worked out, but without his usual excitement when he succeeded. “They said I was pretending to be smart. That I didn’t really know anything.”

Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat. He knew better than to show pity towards his brother, even in a situation like this. Sherlock hated being pitied, but Mycroft himself hated these other children ridiculing Sherlock for something as important as his intelligence- a trait his brother valued highly. Even at this age Sherlock was constantly thirsting for more knowledge; yet these children were teasing him for it.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began, but then stopped. He gently peeled Sherlock from his arm, and pulled him around so Sherlock was sitting between his legs. Sherlock struggled half-heartedly at first, but then soon settled once Mycroft’s arms were around him. “You know you can’t listen to them, Sherlock. They were just scared because you know more than they do.” Mycroft briefly tightened his arms. “They didn’t expect you to be so smart.”

Sherlock twisted around a little to try and look at him, but he ended up gazing at Mycroft’s chin. “You mean their older brothers didn’t teach them like you did?” Sherlock asked as he turned to settle back down, making this sound like the most ridiculous thing ever.

Mycroft laughed quietly, a little touched by Sherlock’s confusion. “No, Sherlock. Not always. Most wait until school begins.” Sometimes they let a child just be a child, he added silently.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in annoyance. “Well that’s boring,” he pronounced confidently. “They must have awful older brothers.”

At that moment Mycroft was thankful Sherlock couldn’t see the smile tugging at his mouth. Only his brother would think not helping teach their younger sibling would make someone an awful older sibling. “I’m sure they do,” Mycroft agreed, not completely able to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Sherlock shifted restlessly between his legs, and Mycroft slightly loosened his hold. He waited for Sherlock to say something, but his brother seemed content to stare speculatively at the wall.

Just when Mycroft was about to break the silence, Sherlock’s voice whispered hesitantly, “Mycroft?”

He tilted his head down to look at the mop of dark curls. “Yes, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked in the same quiet tone.

“What, what do I do?” Sherlock asked uncomfortably, reminding Mycroft of the few times his brother had come to him for advice. Sherlock might ask never-ending questions about the world around them, but he still liked making his own decisions and conclusions whenever possible. “I… want them to like me, but…”

“You don’t want to pretend you’re not as smart as you really are?” Mycroft finished for his brother, understanding Sherlock’s reluctance. It was likely his and Mummy’s, but mostly his own, fault. They hadn’t given Sherlock any time with children his own age so he wasn’t used to them; instead he was used to being with Mycroft and their housekeeper. Mycroft had also been catering to Sherlock’s education and mostly ignoring the need to teach Sherlock social skills; ones Sherlock had little chance of learning himself if he continued to remain in the house most of the time.

And now Sherlock was facing a schoolroom full of children who didn’t like that Sherlock was, knowledge-wise, smarter than them. Mycroft could only hope that even in his stubbornness, Sherlock would be able to find a compromise.

He tried to think of the right advice to give Sherlock, but all he managed was, “just be yourself, Sherlock.” Mycroft gently carded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. “But you should also try to get along with them, all right? Don’t show off too much. Can you do that?”

“Mm…” Sherlock hummed in an answer that wasn’t really one. But after a moment he gave in and said with a tense sigh, “Fine, I’ll try.”

Mycroft smiled proudly down at his brother and ruffled Sherlock’s hair. “Alright then,” he said before changing the subject. “Now, tell me about my day.”

Sherlock quickly sat up at the hint of a challenge and twisted around in the space between Mycroft’s legs. He knelt there, leaning forward slightly as he fixed Mycroft with an intense stare.

Even though Sherlock was his brother, those light eyes flicking a path over his body and studying him was still slightly unnerving. This was a game of theirs; one Mycroft had recently created to help build Sherlock’s growing perception and deduction skills. He would ask Sherlock a question or ask him to solve something, and Sherlock would try to answer by only what he could piece together from things he saw. At first Sherlock hadn’t been very good at it, getting only the obvious correct. But in the past weeks he had become much better.

Mycroft refocused all his attention on his little brother as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

“Well,” he began slowly, gaze flickering towards the bottom of Mycroft’s jacket. “One of your teachers at school asked you to write at the chalkboard, something longer than one line; the road by your school was still wet from rain; you didn’t have a very good day, you had a fight with someone; and…” Sherlock finished with a little more confidence, looking down at Mycroft’s books which were still sitting on the ground, “you had a piano lesson where you didn’t get to play much.”

Sherlock then looked up at Mycroft, light eyes bright with anticipation and fists uncurling. “Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

Mycroft smiled at him. “Tell me how you figured it out first.”

Sherlock sighed noisily as if Mycroft was asking the world of him. “There’s a chalk patch on the left side of your jacket, your shoes are still a little wet on the sides, your hair’s messed up the way it only gets when you run your hand through it, which you only do when you argue, and last, not all of your books have been used.”

Once he was done, Sherlock took a deep breath and then asked again, even more impatient, “Well?”

Mycroft felt a smile grow across his face. “All correct,” he pronounced, and laughed at the incredibly pleased look Sherlock had. “But,” Mycroft continued quickly, “before you get too excited,” he ignored the glare Sherlock was giving him, “you need to work on strengthening your logic.”

Instead of looking disappointed or upset as anyone else would, Mycroft’s words seemed to light a fire under Sherlock. His eyes were already focused with what Mycroft suspected were plans.

“What do you want as a reward?” Mycroft asked, interrupting his brother’s train of thought. Part of the game was that if Sherlock was correct, he would get some kind of reward. Mycroft was forced to adjust that to small, safe rewards after Sherlock asked for a chemistry set (a real, professional one), something to experiment on, and a set of rare books. It wasn’t very hard to see the direction Sherlock’s interests were heading.

Luckily, Sherlock was momentarily distracted by Mycroft’s question. He bit his lip as he thought, before he finally asked, “Will you play for me?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft agreed with barely any hesitation, “I think I can manage that.”

He mentally made a note to ask Mummy if she could start Sherlock on some kind of instrument soon. With how much his brother seemed to enjoy hearing him play, Mycroft suspected Sherlock would love learning an instrument of his own.

~~ * ~~  
A few months later Sherlock was still quieter than usual, but he didn’t seem to be having any more trouble at school; at least none he shared with Mycroft. But Sherlock did lock himself in his room more often than he had before starting school, and- even though it was likely not the case- Mycroft hoped this meant Sherlock was reading or studying when he did. He didn’t want to believe Sherlock was having trouble and not telling him. Finally Mycroft attempted to casually ask Sherlock, but the boy had just given him a look before quickly changing the subject.

He didn’t act on his suspicions, and wouldn’t until he actually had proof. But that didn’t stop him from worrying about Sherlock.

The call came in the late afternoon on a day Mycroft luckily had off, and in the middle of one of Mummy’s busiest social weeks. He’d been in the second floor study reading when the phone rang.

Mycroft slipped a bookmark into the book he’d been reading, and reached over to pick up the handset. “Holmes residence,” he answered in a mild voice.

A middle-aged woman’s voice spoke hesitantly from the other end. “H-hello. I’d like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Holmes.”

“I’m sorry, neither is available right now,” Mycroft replied in his best adult voice, trying to sound apologetic.

The woman seemed taken aback. “Oh, uhm, well,” she stammered, obviously trying to think what to do. “My name is Ms. Appleton; I’m Sherlock’s teacher at school.”

Mycroft suddenly sat up straight, all his attention focused on the phone in his hand. “Did something happen to Sherlock? Is he all right?” He demanded sharply, all thoughts of civility gone in favor of ensuring his brother was safe.

Ms. Appleton seemed reluctant to answer as she mumbled, “I’m not sure I should-“

“I’m his older brother, Mycroft, Ms. Appleton,” Mycroft informed her sternly, incidentally using the same voice he used with Sherlock at his most difficult. “Now please, tell me what has happened to Sherlock.”

This must have convinced the teacher because her tone was more pleasant, yet still worried, as she continued. “Well, nothing has happened to him necessarily… I simply wondered if his- er, your- parents were aware he was having trouble at school.”

Mycroft managed to feel both irritated with himself for not pushing his brother, and also with Sherlock for not telling him. Especially after the talk they’d had on Sherlock’s first day. “You don’t mean he’s having difficult learning, do you?” Mycroft asked warily, finding it hard to believe he was even asking.

But Ms. Appleton dismissed his worry quite completely when she scoffed and said, “God, no. The boy’s a genius. I don’t think I’ve ever taught one like him before.” The amusement then faded out of her voice, only to be replaced once again by worry. “I’m afraid that is the problem, however. Sherlock isn’t getting along very well with his classmates. He will speak to me to answer questions or during class oftentimes, but he has stopped speaking to his classmates.” She paused for a few seconds before adding uncomfortably, “I’ve also noticed he often doesn’t join the other children at break. And the librarian has told me he often sees Sherlock in the library during that time.”

Mycroft sighed heavily, sinking further into the chair. It was just as he’d feared, and yet Sherlock hadn’t told him. Why was Sherlock so insistent on solving his own problems when he was still so young and had such little experience? Into the phone he said, “Thank you, Ms. Appleton. I’ll talk to Sherlock when he comes home.”

“You’re welcome, Mycroft, was it?” Ms. Appleton replied warmly in the tone of teachers everywhere. “I just hope Sherlock can begin to get along with his classmates. He seems like a very smart and nice, if not a little odd, child.”

“Thank you, Ms. Appleton-“ Mycroft began politely, trying to get her off the line. He thought he had heard noise on the drive outside, and needed to decide what to say to Sherlock.

But the teacher was still talking. “Children can be rather mean sometimes, but it’s really only because they’re so young and don’t understand that different can be good. I don’t-“

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft said yet again, a little more impatiently this time. “I’ll talk to him and see if I can help. I’m afraid I need to go now.” On impulse he added, “thank you for looking after Sherlock, and calling.”

With the teacher’s surprised reply of, “Well, you’re very welcome, I-“ echoing from the speaker, Mycroft set the phone back down on the receiver. Then he slid off the chair, set his book on the seat, and quickly went to the front stairs.

Sherlock was due home any moment, and Mycroft wanted to be there when he came in. So he walked down the stairs, stopped five steps from the bottom, and settled in to wait.

As he’d suspected, it was very little time before he heard the sound of tires on the gravel outside. Mycroft straightened sharply when the car door slammed shut, his eyes trained on the wood of the front doors.

It was because he was watching that Mycroft saw the tense set of Sherlock’s shoulders as his brother slid inside through the small opening he’d made with the door. When Sherlock turned in his direction, Mycroft glimpsed pressed lips and thin fingers clutching at the books Sherlock held.

He did have a bad day then. The only time Mycroft had seen Sherlock even close to this state was either when Father was around, or any time strangers came to the house. Sherlock didn’t talk a lot normally, but with people outside of their family Sherlock refused to speak and wouldn’t open his mouth for anything. He also tended to stay close to Mycroft or Mummy the entire time, warily watching the strangers.

Mycroft silently scolded Mummy and himself once again for isolating Sherlock so much. It wasn’t that Sherlock was anti-social; it was that he hadn’t been around other people enough to know how to act or connect with them.

And here were the consequences of that. “Sherlock,” Mycroft called quietly, watching his brother.

Sherlock, who should have at least noticed him, quickly spun around from closing the door. “Mycroft!” He said sharply in surprise, then visibly forced himself to relax and repeat in a more normal voice, “Mycroft, why are you waiting for me?”

Of course Sherlock had known he was sitting here waiting. Sherlock was talented at not skimming over things, at least when he wanted not to. Mycroft replied mildly, “Your teacher called earlier.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise, but he calmly set his books down on the floor. “You answered instead of Mummy,” he said in a tone that was more question than statement. Mycroft also plainly heard the vulnerability in those words Sherlock was trying to disguise.

“Yes, I did,” he answered simply, reassured that Sherlock preferred having him answer to Mummy.

Sherlock treated him to a small smile. “What did she say?” He asked curiously, even if Mycroft expected he already knew- or suspected. Sherlock seemed to really not want to talk about his difficulties at school.

“Well,” Mycroft started, rising to his feet and walking to the bottom of the stairs. “She said you were having trouble with your classmates; that you were ignoring them and spending time in the library instead of going outside during break.”

What was possibly guilt, then more clearly annoyance, flashed across Sherlock’s face. “She wasn’t meant to tell you. I’m fine with how things are. I like reading.”

“I know you do, Sherlock,” Mycroft said with a soft, weary sigh. “But it would be better for you to spend time with your classmates then with books.”

The look on Sherlock’s face told of a coming storm. “But I like the books, I don’t like them,” Sherlock said with all the logic of a child. He seemed to have suddenly decided petulance was the best line of action. “They’re stupid and don’t like me. They’re slow too- it takes them ages to read and learn things.”

Why did he have to get the socially awkward, genius younger brother? Why couldn’t he have a brother it was easy to explain things to? Although there were some times he enjoyed having a brother like Sherlock- just not at this moment.

“That doesn’t mean they’re stupid, Sherlock,” Mycroft explained patiently, struggling between the urge to knock some sense into the boy’s head and tightly embracing him. “It just means they don’t learn as quickly as you, and don’t make the same connections.” He took another step forward before adding quietly, “You have to be patient with them, Sherlock; give them time to catch up with you.”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, considering Mycroft’s words. Then he looked up again to ask softly, “Did you have to?”

Well, that was the question wasn’t it? Sherlock was floundering at school, trying to find a way to fit in with these other children while staying himself; and he was looking to Mycroft as if his brother understood and had the perfect solution. Sometimes it was difficult having a younger brother look up to him like Sherlock did.

“Sometimes,” Mycroft admitted with a small shrug. He walked over to stop and kneel down in front of Sherlock. “Life can be hard, Sherlock. You have to face it as best you can.” At the flicker of uncertainty in those eyes Mycroft added, resting one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, “And I’ll do my best to help, for as long as you want.”

A bright smile slowly grew across Sherlock’s face, and he leaned forward to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders. “Thanks, Mycroft,” the boy whispered softly in his ear.

“You’re welcome, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied in the same soft voice. When he gently pushed Sherlock away several seconds later, his hands still on the thin waist, Mycroft asked, “Can you promise something else for me?”

Sherlock looked warily back at him. “Maybe,” he hedged carefully.

Mycroft gently tightened his hold on his brother. “Will you please tell me next time you have trouble like this? Will you come to me first, instead of making me hear it from your teacher?”

This time it took a short pause before Sherlock gave a small nod and agreed, “Yes, I’ll try to.”

Mycroft knew that was likely the best agreement he would get from Sherlock. Even this small agreement had likely been difficult for his brother. But Mycroft was the older sibling so it was his responsibility to look after Sherlock. Sherlock couldn’t do everything for himself.

To lighten the mood Mycroft said, underlying it with a smile, “But I also want you to keep being yourself. My ridiculous, brilliant, stubborn-headed little brother, all right?”

That got a laugh out of Sherlock, the smile lighting up his face. “Okay,” he agreed with much more conviction than his last promise.

Mycroft wanted to add more, to have Sherlock promise him more. He wanted to ask Sherlock to stay this way, this age forever; to always remain his little brother, to never let anyone else change him too much- but he couldn’t for some reason, the words wouldn’t form. Mycroft cared for his brother, but he knew he needed to let Sherlock grow up and become his own person. He couldn’t always clear a path for his little brother, however much he wanted to.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice asked softly.

Mycroft raised his head to smile at his brother. “Yes, Sherlock?”

The look on Sherlock’s face was one that usually heralded trouble. “I’ve been practic- practicing, and-“

Mycroft thought about the many times he’d attempted to teach Sherlock how to play the piano, and the off-tune not-actually-songs his brother would meticulously play note-by-note.  
Even though Sherlock was trying, the piano didn’t seem to be his forte. But Sherlock did sound excited to show him what he’d been practicing, so, “I’d love to hear it.”

Sherlock grinned, waited impatiently for him to get to his feet, and then dragged Mycroft off towards the living room.

~~~ * ~~~~ * ~~~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: These four chapters cover the Holmes brothers childhood together. There are more chapters of vignette's from Sherlock's uni years to when he met John, but those come later. However, all are completely written. 
> 
> Also, if anyone has any ideas for stories from this verse they would like me to write, I would love to hear them! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Feedback appreciated!

Several months later Mycroft was finally able to convince Mummy to buy an instrument for Sherlock and arrange lessons. At first Sherlock wanted to learn the piano; but when Mycroft gently suggested he try another instrument, Sherlock insisted on the violin. His choice wasn’t very surprising due to the orchestral music overheard coming from Sherlock’s room at all hours lately.

Mummy agreed to let Sherlock learn the violin with only a little hesitation, since it was a complicated instrument, but she did eventually give in.

Several days later the violin tutor Mummy found for Sherlock arrived at the house in the early evening. Mummy had purchased a relatively inexpensive practice violin for Sherlock, just in case he changed his mind and decided to stop playing after a short time; but Sherlock had other ideas. On one of his and Mycroft’s trips into town, an old Stradivarius violin in the window of the antiques store caught Sherlock’s eye. They didn’t buy it that day, but afterwards Sherlock did nothing but talk about the violin and demand it repeatedly.

After awhile the three of them came to a compromise: if Sherlock continued with the violin for an entire year, practicing as he was supposed to, Mummy would purchase the Stradivarius. Sherlock had quickly agreed, faster then they’d expected him to; and then, as with most things he enjoyed, Sherlock threw himself into learning the instrument.

Luckily there were only a few days enduring off-key droning, ear-splitting scratching and screeching, and senseless noises before Sherlock began playing genuine music.

Once Sherlock started to play songs, even the simpler ones, it quickly became obvious just how much talent he had for the instrument. It wasn’t long before it started sounding like he’d been playing for years.

Sherlock didn’t like anyone watching while he practiced, other than the tutor during lessons, so Mycroft took to sitting outside Sherlock’s door or somewhere close with that door open so he could hear. Mummy, when she was home, often sat in her dressing room and listened.

It was often simple to tell how Sherlock’s day had been by how long he stayed in his room practicing, and how he played. It also served as an excellent indicator of his mood.

Mycroft had hoped that by playing the violin Sherlock would find another way to express himself, other than through speaking. And while this seemed to have come true, Mycroft still tried to convince Sherlock to continue speaking.

He wasn’t as successful with this strategy; it seemed that while Sherlock would speak to him, Mummy, the violin tutor, and the housekeeper, he still became shy and refused to speak around anyone else.

Mycroft and Mummy had hoped Sherlock would have a new start when he started at his new school later that year. However, unfortunately it seemed Sherlock’s reputation preceded him, and the children with him before had spread rumors about how strange the Holmes boy was. Mycroft and Mummy tried their best to help Sherlock, but it seemed Sherlock was fated to be just alone at his new school as his old one.

Instead of the violin becoming another voice for Sherlock, it very nearly became his only voice.

~~~ * ~~~

Except for how Sherlock used his voice when he observed people.

As time went by Sherlock had become even more skilled in it, able to take a few details and piece them together into a description of the person. Mummy was often uncomfortable when he practiced on her (but she tried to hide how much it unnerved her); the housekeeper tended to just laugh and affectionately pat his shoulder. The few times Sherlock accidentally slipped and said something to his violin tutor, he would clam up when asked to repeat himself and not speak for the rest of the lesson. Sherlock never even tried at school unless the other children, and his teacher, thought he was even stranger.

Mycroft was the only one comfortable being the focus of Sherlock’s observations, and he often went out of his way to challenge his brother. Sherlock’s mind was so complex and he learned so quickly that Mycroft often found himself having to work harder to keep Sherlock occupied.

As part of his strategy Mycroft would take Sherlock into town every so often to watch and observe the people. This was usually the only time the two of them went into town, so they often spent much of their time walking around looking at everything. The sweetshop, bookstore, and antiques shop were their most frequent stops; Sherlock often let go of Mycroft’s hand to walk faster when they came into sight of these shops, otherwise he always remained close.

Somehow Sherlock knew enough not to say his observations out loud where other people could hear him, but that didn’t stop him from telling Mycroft everything he noticed. Some of the things Sherlock said were mostly understandable: age, marital status, occupation, destination; but other observations he made, interspersed with Sherlock’s own opinions, Mycroft often found amusing. Including what Sherlock said about the old man who went up and down the street the entire time they were there, going in and out of stores in a pattern.

In the sweetshop, their second visit in one trip- apparently Sherlock just had to have more chocolate drops- someone happened to overhear Sherlock. 

Mycroft was at the counter, purchasing more chocolate drops and an oddly shaped sweet that was questionably food but Sherlock insisted on having. Sherlock was standing next to him, leaning against the counter with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he looked around the shop; every once in a while Mycroft had to gently nudge his brother to warn him not to stare. The people of the town liked them well enough, but still thought the Holmes’ boys were strange.

Sherlock’s gaze finally landed on one of the elderly men sitting at a stool on the other side of the space. As Mycroft paid for the bag of sweets, Sherlock’s light eyes flickered up and down the man’s body.

“That man’s gambling away his pension,” Sherlock told Mycroft in a voice that wasn’t quite as quiet as it should have been. Mycroft took the bag and change from the girl behind the counter and smiled warmly at her. She was rather good looking, but he was distracted by Sherlock about to insult someone without meaning to. Sherlock hadn’t quite realized he could hurt someone’s feelings with his observations, although he did understand his talent was unique. “He goes to the horses during the day and gambles, but he’s a very poor gambler.”

Mycroft turned and looked quizzically down at his brother. “How do you even know about gambling and the horses?” He opened the bag and, after a brief search, handed over the lolly he’d bought for Sherlock.

Sherlock gave him a dark look under his curls, but did take the sweet. “From the papers,” He explained simply, in his ‘it’s obvious’ tone. Sherlock licked the lolly a few times then glanced over at the older man again. “And he has gambling tickets in his front pocket.”

In the midst of unwrapping a chocolate-caramel candy, Mycroft turned to follow his brother’s gaze. There were tickets sticking out from the pocket of the man’s shirt, and mud that could possibly have come from the race tracks on his shoes. The man also had a very large selection of sweets piled in front of him, as well as nearly the same amount of wrappers; it was true it was common for people to eat a lot of sweets when they were depressed.

Mycroft smiled and looked down at his brother. “Good work, Sherlock,” he praised before placing the candy in his mouth.

“What’s that spoiled brat saying about me?” A hoarse, low voice asked irritably, loud enough for the entire store to hear. “Better not be telling lies.”

Before Mycroft could attempt to stop him, or perhaps even lead Sherlock out of the shop, Sherlock replied with his typical sarcastic wit, “Not unless you aren’t an addictive gambler after all, and are eating chocolate for a reason other than to feel better about yourself.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft hissed sharply, resting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Along with growing a year older, Sherlock had unfortunately also discovered the use of sarcasm. He had taken to using it whenever possible, constantly tempting people’s tempers.

Sherlock just smiled, innocent as you please, and continued eating the lolly. He had become increasingly cocky, no matter how Mycroft tried to temper him. It didn’t help that Sherlock was more than usually intelligent and perceptive.

The older man climbed off the stool- with a little difficulty- and rose to his feet. “What was that boy?” He rasped angrily, face transformed with rage. Obviously Sherlock had been smart enough to choose the worst person, with the shortest temper, to insult.

Sherlock bristled beneath Mycroft’s hand; he hated being called out on his age, especially since he was still slightly smaller than other children his age. Not wanting to cause a scene, Mycroft shifted his hand to Sherlock’s back and none-too-gently directed him towards the door.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything, sir,” Mycroft soothed with a small smile. But the man just glared at the both of them and crossed his arms with a quiet huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse us… I hope you have an excellent day.”

Sherlock tried to protest as they went out the door, but Mycroft just pushed his brother ahead firmly. As soon as they were out on the pavement Mycroft turned Sherlock to face him. Mycroft had hit his growth spurt several months earlier, so he had to crouch down further than usual to look his brother in the eye- and also struggle to control his still not quite settled voice.

Before Sherlock could say anything Mycroft scolded sternly, “I’ve told you, Sherlock. It’s all right if you share what you see with me, but most people don’t enjoy hearing personal things about themselves being spoken out-loud- especially where other people can hear.”

Sherlock scowled and said, “It’s not as if it isn’t true.” He stuck the entire lolly in his mouth and then added, talking around it, “they’re just deluding themselves.”

Wondering at the expanse of Sherlock’s vocabulary, Mycroft replied, “That may be true, but that still doesn’t mean people want to hear it.” He added rashly, not quite considering his words in favour of getting his point across, “How would you feel if someone said such things to you?”

The only sign of Sherlock’s reaction was a slight pause before he continued to devour the lolly. But he didn’t quite meet Mycroft’s eyes as he claimed, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Mycroft knew that was definitely not the truth, especially with what school was like for Sherlock. But he decided it was better to not get into that right now, given he didn’t want to have an argument (an old one) in the middle of the pavement.

Instead he took Sherlock’s hand- the one that wasn’t currently holding the sweet- and led his brother back down the pavement. “We should start home, Mummy will be getting worried.”

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

The next Christmas Mummy decided Sherlock was old enough to take part in her annual formal Christmas dinner. They were always a large, complicated affair involving week’s preparation of cleaning the house, decorating the house, and also putting together a meal and a guest list that met Mummy’s approval.

In previous years Sherlock had stayed upstairs the entire night, except for a few minutes when he was presented to Mummy’s guests. When Sherlock would come to Mycroft’s room after the dinner was finished, and Mycroft was finally released from the whole tiresome thing, Sherlock would complain about how the guests always fussed over him like he was some kind of pet. Mycroft often teased his brother it was because of his looks, but he knew it really did bother Sherlock. He suspected that was why Sherlock was sharpening his tongue and wit, so people would see beyond his looks.

This year was Sherlock’s first official involvement in the dinner party, and Mummy was very excited. She made an enormous fuss, making sure Sherlock had the right outfit and looked just right; but, most important of all, knew exactly how to behave. Mycroft took time to give Sherlock advice based on his own past experiences.

Mummy had also insisted on Sherlock playing several of his favorite pieces after dinner. The result was that Sherlock, who never did anything less than his absolute best, locked himself in his room after school in order to practice. The only time he stopped was to eat a little, go to school, sometimes sleep, and consult with Mummy. Otherwise he was completely focused on practicing.

Mycroft made sure to have Sherlock promise he’d be on his best behavior and not deduce (that was what he was calling it now) any of Mummy’s guests.

Even with that promise, Mycroft suspected he should have known better.

The night itself started out fairly well. The guests arrived on time in their usual splendor, with Mummy greeting them at the door. Meanwhile Mycroft and the housekeeper were busy in the kitchen and dining room, while Sherlock had one final practice upstairs.

When the time for dinner arrived, everyone took their places at the table with Mummy sitting at the head and Mycroft then Sherlock to her right. There had been a brief fuss when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, wearing the dark grey suit Mummy had purchased for him and violin case wedged under his arm. He’d stopped, realizing the attention of the entire room was on him, and then ducked his head. Mycroft noticed his brother’s fingers clench around the case before Sherlock continued into the room. Then Sherlock set his violin case against the wall and walked over to his chair next to Mycroft.

With a quiet, amused laugh Mummy commanded for the dinner to begin. As the guests resumed talking and dinner began to arrive, Mycroft leaned over and whispered to his brother, “Stop worrying. You’ve been practicing, you’ll be fine.” When Sherlock glared grumpily at him beneath his perfectly arranged curls, Mycroft added, “And stop playing with your cuffs, you’ll worry them.”

Sherlock made a quietly annoyed noise, but did release his cuffs and place his hands in his lap.

For the rest of the dinner Sherlock was remarkably well-behaved. He kept his head down and ate only a little of each course, speaking only when addressed by Mummy. Mycroft saw Sherlock turn his head every once in a while to look at the people around the table, but he never actually said anything.

When dinner was (finally) over, they all adjourned to the sitting room. The guests walked in together and then settled into groups around the room, with Mummy moving between them. Sherlock and Mycroft came in last together, one of Sherlock’s hands jammed into his pocket. Beside him Mycroft did his best not to take Sherlock’s hand or to lead him around the room. Sherlock was old enough to manage on his own, especially to hold his own against a room of socialites. Sherlock had a forceful and headstrong personality, growing more so every year- he was a small whirlwind on his own.

Mummy called both of them over when she noticed them come into the room. She waved her hand as if it would make them move faster, and once they were close she drew Sherlock next to her. He was too grown now to sit on her lap, but Mummy shifted so she could wrap an arm around his shoulders.

“Anabella, I don’t believe you’ve met my youngest son,” Mummy said to the woman beside her. “This is Sherlock,” Mummy introduced with a warm, proud smile.

The other woman’s slightly wrinkled face changed as she smiled at Sherlock, leaning forward to look at him. “It’s wonderful to meet you dear,” the woman drawled in a light, crackling voice. “My, he looks just like you,” she said to Mummy, sounding amused.

Sherlock’s left arm shifted to behind his back. Then Mycroft saw it curl into a fist as he drawled, voice as impassive as his expression, “It’s very nice to meet you.”

Mummy luckily didn’t seem to notice; she gave a small, pleased smile and patted Sherlock’s shoulder lightly. Then Mummy added, in a not quite afterthought, “And you know Mycroft, of course.”

The woman solemnly nodded her head, and held her hand out to Mycroft. “Of course,” she said with a small smile. “It is good to see you again young man.”

Mycroft lightly shook her hand, replying politely, “And you as well.” As he released the thin, fragile hand Mycroft thought he heard Sherlock make an annoyed noise. But when he looked over, his brother’s face remained vacant.

Mummy smiled happily at the two of them, before slowly rising to her feet. She straightened her dress as if it had gotten messed, and turned to the woman. “I’ll talk with you more later, Anabella. I want to introduce Sherlock to some of the others,” Mummy said, putting a hand on both Sherlock and Mycroft’s shoulders.

The woman smiled at her, “Of course, of course.” She looked at Sherlock and Mycroft to give both of them a wide smile. “You two take care now.”

Before they could reply, Mummy was steering them away and towards a group of three women sitting on chairs gathered together.

Mummy first introduced Sherlock then Mycroft to these women, bringing about more polite conversation and forced smiles. The women all fussed over Sherlock, who only ever replied mildly to comments about how nice it was to meet him. Otherwise he just stood in front of Mummy, as expressionless as a statue.

This went on for one more group of women as Mummy, Sherlock, and Mycroft continued their circuit around the room. There was more polite, if not stilted, conversation while Mummy asked each woman how they were and Mycroft tried to be polite while keeping an eye on Sherlock- who seemed to be growing increasingly restless. Every so often Sherlock would shift his weight just slightly, left hand still curled into a fist behind his back. Mycroft wasn’t certain what his brother was holding in, just that it was likely dangerous; he tried several times to catch Sherlock’s eye, but his brother only continued staring forward.

Mycroft’s concern was finally acted upon when they stopped in front of two more women. The women had been talking in low voices but quickly stopped once Mummy, Sherlock, and Mycroft arrived in front of them.

Even without Mummy’s introduction it was obvious the two women were mother and daughter. The mother was roughly Mummy’s age, but the daughter only looked to be in her late twenties; she also looked like a much younger clone of her mother.

Sherlock suddenly stood up straighter to fix the women with a strong stare. Then, just after the mother commented how wonderful it was to meet him and before Mycroft could quietly remind Sherlock about his promise to behave, the little that remained of Sherlock’s self-control snapped.

“You’ve been married for, three years is it? But it was a marriage arranged by your mother,” Sherlock began, the words practically rushing out of his mouth in their hurry to make space for the next. “You don’t love him, but you keep up the pretense and meet your lover whenever your husband is gone.” Sherlock seemed to be fully in his element, leaning forward with his eyes practically gleaming. Not even Mummy’s alarmed protest of “Sherlock!” could stop him. “The lover’s older than you are, that’s why you’re wearing that instead of something more modest.” His cool gaze shifted onto the mother. “And you, you try to control her life because you don’t want her to make the same mistakes as you did. But she hates you for it so she fights you whenever she can, especially over her marriage. She didn’t even want to come here tonight, but you forced her to.”

Mummy pulled on Sherlock’s shoulder with enough force to turn him around to face her. When he saw the furious look in her eyes, his mouth snapped shut and he actually seemed to deflate.

Mycroft turned to try to defend Sherlock, or at least mediate the ensuing argument; but Mummy gave him just as fierce a look, daring him to speak. Then she focused her attention back on the women, smiling apologetically as she said, “I’m very sorry. He didn’t mean anything by it, I’m sure.” Mummy squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder in warning, in case he tried to comment. “Sherlock has always been a very… outspoken child.”

That was so very untrue Mycroft had to fight an urge to laugh. But fortunately the daughter didn’t look as offended as she could have been, and even smiled tentatively at him; however, the mother didn’t appear to be appeased at all.

“Sherlock, Mycroft,” Mummy said in what sounded like a perfectly pleasant voice. Yet for them it was easy to see her entire body was tense with anger. “Why don’t you go up to your rooms, I’ll be along in a while.”

She didn’t even let them respond, likely a good idea. Instead Mummy pushed them none too gently forward towards the double doors at the other end of the room. Sherlock bristled, a storm beginning to brew on his face, but his light eyes were overcast.

Mycroft gently took his brother’s hand, as if he was still little and not a child who acted much older than his age. Then he led Sherlock towards the small door in the wall opposite them, tucked just beside the bookcase. To Mycroft’s surprise Sherlock came easily, not struggling at all.

They quietly slipped out the door, trying not to draw any attention. Once they were in the small hallway between the sitting room and the kitchen Sherlock tried to speak, an almost desperate look on his face. But Mycroft didn’t want to talk here, outside the privacy of their rooms. So he shook his head and led Sherlock to the back stairs then up to the second floor. 

Mycroft had wanted to go to his own room, but as they passed Sherlock’s his brother suddenly stopped and refused to move. Mycroft turned around, hoping to convince Sherlock to keep walking, but any words he’d meant to say died in his throat when he saw his brother.

Sherlock had almost the same expression as when he had asked Mycroft in a quiet, uncertain voice what he should do about the other children at school. The lost look in his eyes was now coupled with confusion as he bit his lower lip, not quite meeting Mycroft’s eyes. It was very different from how Sherlock had been practically radiating excitement while deducing the mother and daughter. It seemed that even though Sherlock acted strong and confident, he really was still vulnerable and not completely sure-footed in the world yet.

Mycroft sighed quietly and nodded. “All right.” Then, still holding Sherlock’s hand, he moved and opened the door to Sherlock’s room.

As soon as the door was open, Sherlock slipped from Mycroft’s grip and burst into the room in a fit of righteous fury. “What did I do wrong?” He demanded, rushing across the room towards the windows. “Why is Mummy so upset?”

Mycroft quietly closed the door behind them so their voices wouldn’t carry, and then took a few measured steps into the room. “You know what you did, Sherlock,” he commented, watching his brother’s restless pacing.

Sherlock paused mid-turn at Mycroft’s words, then somehow managed to almost gracefully turn the rest of the way without falling. As he faced Mycroft his expression was one of carefully controlled innocence, but after Mycroft raised an eyebrow Sherlock’s expression crumbled.

“Okay, fine. Yes, I know,” Sherlock agreed reluctantly with a loud sigh. “But, didn’t it bother you?” After a pause he added, as if not quite able to find the right words, “being nice, pretending to like those people… making such pointless conversation?” Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “Being paraded around like some kind of pet?”

“It wasn’t like that, Sherlock,” Mycroft disagreed calmly, noting the scorn in his brother’s voice. If he wasn’t careful Sherlock would work himself into one of the tantrums he hadn’t quite outgrown yet. “Mummy wouldn’t treat us that way,” Mycroft said, knowing he was right. “And besides, sometimes it’s necessary to be nice to people, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked slowly, looking like he was trying to digest this. Then he said confused, as if even the concept itself was ridiculous, “but, why?”

Mycroft always dreaded that question from Sherlock. It often meant he had to come up with an honest and detailed enough answer to satisfy his brother. Mycroft thought carefully for a minute or so before he finally answered, “Because if you’re nice to them then they will likely be nice in return. And if they do, then whenever you need help or a favour then they may help you.” Mycroft lifted his shoulder in a kind of light shrug. “If having access to such help means being nice, or making idle conversation, or pretending to like someone, then it’s not a difficult decision.”

Sherlock’s reaction was to scrunch his face in annoyance. “That’s ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to force yourself to be nice just to have other people’s help. It’s much easier just to do things yourself.” Sherlock paused for a moment then added darkly, “and Mummy is only being nice to them so they’ll like her and invite her into their circle. She’s just kissing up to them.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft snapped disapprovingly, glaring at his brother. “That is rude and completely untrue. Mummy only has this family’s best interests at heart and you know that full well. She is trying her best to take care of us, so you should be grateful.” He watched Sherlock shift uneasily and added, “will you apologize?”

Sherlock appeared to be well aware the question was actually a charge, and he was left very little room to disagree. Sherlock had formed a loathing of having to apologize, or admit he was in the wrong. But this was Mummy, even if she was currently extremely upset with them- particularly Sherlock.

Sherlock finally exhaled heavily and gave in, saying with disgust, “All right, fine. I apologize for what I said about Mummy.” Before Mycroft could feel any happiness that Sherlock had apologized, (obviously he didn’t loathe Mummy completely just yet), his brother continued. “But don’t you get tired of all of it? The politics, the etiquette? How can anyone stand it? It’s so… tedious.”

“It’s simply a part of life, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, trying to soothe his brother’s aversion. “Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to in order to get ahead.”

A scoffing noise escaped Sherlock’s lips as he shook his head, “I’m never going to do that. I’ll just do everything myself.”

Mycroft sighed and lowered his head for a moment. “It’s all well and good to be independent, Sherlock. But sometimes you do need to have some people around who you can rely on, or who will help you.”

Sherlock flinched and looked off and down to the side. He didn’t say it, but Mycroft suspected his brother was once again fiercely thinking he didn’t need anyone. Sherlock had been mostly alone until now, ostracized by children his own age; somehow that made Sherlock think he could continue on the same way.

Other than changing his mind, which was unlikely to happen, Mycroft would just have to make sure Sherlock didn’t do that.

“It might help if you learned a little patience,” Mycroft advised calmly, trying to avoid Sherlock lashing out at him. “And if you held your tongue when necessary.” Mycroft gave a small smile, “if possible.”

When Sherlock didn’t look like he approved of this at all, and may even be a little hurt by the suggestion, Mycroft added swiftly, “It would have helped tonight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up; and there was a flash of anger in his eyes as he gasped, “But I-“

“I know, I know,” Mycroft soothed, and took a step towards his brother. “It was too much for you tonight; I should have warned you, or taken better precautions.” He fought to stay still and not begin pacing himself. He should have known better than to let Mummy use Sherlock as a showpiece for her dinner party; there were many other ways she could have officially introduced him to her social circle. The party tonight had been too grand of an event, and also too overwhelming- especially for someone as perceptive as Sherlock. Mycroft had seen his brother becoming increasingly reserved as the dinner had continued, and yet he hadn’t done anything to help. The outburst of deductions had simply been Sherlock unable to keep silent any longer.

It hadn’t really been Sherlock’s fault. Mycroft only hoped Mummy would be able to realize this.

Barely an arm’s length away, the worried look in Sherlock’s eyes faded away into relief and his entire body seemed to finally relax. “There was so much,” he commented tiredly. “All those people, all their secrets, their lives.” Sherlock looked up at his brother, confusion plain on his face. “Why can’t anyone else see it? Why are we the only ones?”

Mycroft felt briefly touched- but also worried- that Sherlock was involving him in his conflict against the rest of the world. Mycroft wasn’t being modest when saying he was smarter and more perspective than others his age, but he still wasn’t able to follow some of Sherlock’s observations or thoughts at times. His brother was already years ahead.

“Because we’re lucky, or unlucky I suppose,” Mycroft mused, considering. He reached out and lightly placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But you need to remember, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, looking Sherlock in the eyes, “you still have many other redeeming traits.”

Sherlock didn’t look completely convinced, but there was a hopeful light in his eyes. “I suppose.”

Before Mycroft could attempt to reassure Sherlock any more, the door opened again and Mummy came striding in, looking extremely upset.

“How could you, Sherlock. How could you?” Mummy asked angrily, her lips pressed together in a tight line. She came to a stop standing between her two sons, closer to Mycroft.

Mummy didn’t glance at either of them as she continued, sounding extremely annoyed, “I had just gotten Madame Whitfield to call on me and bring her daughter along. You have just undone a years’ worth of work in minutes.” She gave an exasperated sigh and began patting at her hair with one hand. “Everything was going so well, you were doing so well. I was so proud of you.”

Sherlock made a soft noise, and Mycroft turned his head to see a pained expression flicker across his brother’s face. Not wanting to see that look on Sherlock, Mycroft said softly, “Mummy, I’m not sure…”

“But then you had to go and say all of those awful things,” Mummy continued as she started pulling pins out of her hair. Little by little her long curls tumbled back down her back. “I didn’t think I raised you to be so rude. I can’t believe you said such awful things, to my guests no less!”

Sherlock, in the need to defend himself, blurted, “But it was true, all of it!”

“That doesn’t mean you had to say it,” Mummy replied with a quiet ‘tsk.’ She tossed her head slightly back and forth, freeing her hair. “I would have thought you’d know by now to not always speak your mind. If you had just held your tongue…”

Sherlock looked increasingly distressed as Mummy continued scolding him. She wasn’t looking at him for the most part, but fussing with her hair instead. Sherlock had his hands hidden behind his back, looking dully up at Mummy. His small frame was so tense with anguish that by the time Sherlock spoke again he was practically trembling.

“I just wanted to make you proud!”

Mummy stilled, hands poised above her hair. Then she came to life again, and lowered her arms back to her sides. “There’s no need to raise your voice, Sherlock. I can hear you perfectly well.”

She turned to fully face Sherlock then, and the anger in her expression melted away. “Oh darling,” Mummy said softly before hurrying over to him. She didn’t kneel down, but did bend slightly. “I’m proud when you get good marks at school, or when I hear how much you’ve improved on the violin.” Mummy patted his shoulder. “Not when you make up stories about my friends. I know you have an active imagination, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean you should share. It’s easy to hurt people’s feelings when you do.”

For the first time in a while Sherlock looked caught between bursting into tears and stomping his foot. Mycroft had warned Sherlock multiple times in the past years that he couldn’t always share his “deductions” with the people he was observing, and he needed to be careful. But hearing the same warning phrased as a scolding from Mummy was having a more severe effect.

“They’re not stories! It’s all true!” Sherlock protested angrily, leaning forward towards her. “They were all stupid socialites anyways.”

Mummy straightened back to her usual height, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. “I won’t have you talking about my friends like that, Sherlock. Obviously you still need to learn some manners.” She turned on the heels she was still wearing and strode over to the door. With one hand on the doorknob, Mummy turned back and called, “Until further notice you are prohibited from all of my future parties, and are not allowed out of the house except for school.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, clearly annoyed. But Mummy’s restrictions weren’t much of a punishment since Sherlock didn’t enjoy either.

Mummy must have realized this since she added, “and, no lessons for a month.”

Sherlock’s temper flared again at the prospect of not being able to learn more violin. “That’s not fair!” He shouted at the closing door. “I didn’t even get to play!”

But the door was already closed, so Mummy didn’t hear.

Sherlock seemed to deflate after Mummy’s departure, curling into himself and looking even smaller than usual.

Worried that Sherlock might not remain standing for long, Mycroft hurried to his side. “Sherlock,” he said softly, hoping to comfort his younger brother.

But Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest, shying away from Mycroft’s touch.

“Go away, Mycroft,” he snapped crossly, voice on the edge of breaking.

Mycroft froze, his hand still outstretched. “I-“ he began, but then stopped and began again, “Sherlock-“

His brother completely turned his back on him, still not saying a word.

For what felt like a long time Mycroft stared at Sherlock’s back, trying to think of something to say. But in the end he just turned and walked to the door. Mycroft didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone, but that seemed to be the only option Sherlock was giving him.

Just before he walked out into the hall, Mycroft turned back and apologized one last time, “I am sorry, Sherlock.”

~~~  
Later that night Mycroft took Sherlock’s violin case from the dining room and left it outside Sherlock’s door, knocking and then walking away.

And if he awoke in the middle of the night to the solemn tones of one of the songs Sherlock had been going to play that evening, Mycroft didn’t say anything the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please read the author's notes at the END.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Feedback appreciated!

Sherlock eventually forgave Mycroft, but their relationship never truly recovered.

When Sherlock finally stopped giving him the silent treatment and shooting him glares across the dinner table, Mycroft attempted to find a way to convince Sherlock to talk to him again.

His first success was to receive one word responses to his questions, accompanied by fierce glares. Then, finally, Sherlock warmed enough to move on to speaking in short, declarative sentences. Many of them were insults, but Mycroft had long ago developed hard skin when it came to his brother.

Even though he and Sherlock were on relative speaking terms, it still wasn’t the same. Sherlock never came to him for help anymore, or liked being in the same room even; instead of listening while he practiced the piano, Sherlock would stomp loudly upstairs and play his violin loud enough to nearly drown out Mycroft’s playing.

They also never went into town anymore together. On one memorable occasion Sherlock left without anyone knowing, actually making it to the town before Mummy went into hysterics when she couldn’t find him. She had sent Mycroft after Sherlock, saying she would call the police if they hadn’t returned within an hour. 

It was a rather small town; but when he finally found his brother, Sherlock was curled up in a corner of the booksellers with a tall stack of books. Following a short argument Sherlock then refused to leave until Mycroft paid for all of the books; and on the way home he was completely silent, heavy bag dangling from his hand.

Sherlock had also completely stopped talking to Mummy, and refused to be in the same room with her as well. He even refused to talk about her with either Mycroft or the housekeeper.

As time went by Mummy’s anger with Sherlock faded a little; and even though she was still upset, she had taken to leaving him small gifts in apology. But no matter their worth, Sherlock either ignored the gifts completely or destroyed them beyond repair. Several times Mycroft had tried to convince Sherlock to forgive her, but his brother had been so adamant that he had given up.

Despite how their relationship had changed, and Sherlock’s self-enforced isolation, Mycroft still seemed to be something to his brother. Sherlock was rarely dependent on him at all anymore, but Mycroft believed they still shared some bond.

As a kind of apology, for Sherlock’s next birthday Mycroft bought him a real chemistry set- just like the professionals used. Sherlock had tried to hide his excitement, but Mycroft had seen through it. 

The housekeeper had made him promise to only use it outside, but that hadn’t seemed to deter Sherlock at all. He even let Mycroft help as an assistant several times. The chemistry set quickly became Sherlock’s prized possession, although he tried to hide that fact from Mycroft, even more precious than the books in his quickly growing collection.

On the few days they didn’t fight, actually enjoying themselves and getting along fairly well, Mycroft would sometimes wake to a sliver of light pouring into his room from the hallway; and, if he stayed still and concentrated, Mycroft could only just see his brother standing off to the side of the doorway.

Mycroft never mentioned to Sherlock that he had seen him, but he did like that his brother still thought enough of him to look in on him.

What truly worried Mycroft was that after the dinner party fiasco, as far as he was aware of, Sherlock had completely stopped practicing his deductions. The few times Sherlock deigned to stay in the same room as him, or when Mycroft watched his brother, Mycroft noticed Sherlock still watched people with that sharp gaze of his, eyes moving constantly as he took in every detail. But Sherlock seemed to have internalized everything instead of sharing it- even with him.

Those deductions were such a large part of who Sherlock was, yet his brother seemed to be ignoring it. Only once Mycroft made the mistake of attempting to coax Sherlock into sharing what he’d seen. His brother had flinched faintly, and then gave him a scathing glare before storming off. For more than a week afterwards, Sherlock was in one of his worst black moods to date.

As Christmas drew near, Sherlock became even moodier than usual. At any mention of Mummy’s party he would lock himself in his room, and play his violin at an almost deafening level. He reluctantly allowed himself to be roped into decorating the tree, and also into helping in the kitchen; but otherwise Sherlock carefully avoided the main areas of the house.

Mycroft tried to pay close attention to Sherlock, and support him; but since he was the unofficial man of the house now that Father had disappeared into politics, Mummy needed his help even more. And Mycroft did his best to please Mummy since he was off to university next year- with top marks. 

Yet he couldn’t stop himself from worrying almost constantly about his brother. Mycroft knew his brother would survive- Sherlock was that type of child- but what worried him was just how well his brother would survive. Once Mycroft was gone off to university, Sherlock would practically be alone in the house- other than the housekeeper. His brother would be eleven on his next birthday, and that was both too young and too old.

So for this Christmas Mycroft bought Sherlock an extravagant gift, to try and appease his brother. He’d seen a long, sweeping coat in one of Mummy’s magazines he thought Sherlock would appreciate. But it was too expensive even for his wallet, and they were only designed for adults.

So, after several days of consideration, Mycroft finally found a solution. He carefully tore the page out of the magazine and went to the tailor’s shop in town. At first the tailor was cautious and took some convincing, but after a while he agreed to make a simpler version that Sherlock would like and would still fit him. Of course it would cost more to have it done by Christmas Eve, but that couldn’t be helped.

The fact that Sherlock’s face lit up like it hadn’t in a long time when he unwrapped the coat, that after first putting it on Sherlock barely took it off, and that he took to practicing dramatic entrances and exits while wearing it, only made the cost even more worthwhile for Mycroft. And also worth the dry cleaning costs for whatever his brother managed to get onto the coat; the cleaners often joked they were his best customers.

~~~~~

Soon after Christmas Sherlock discovered mystery novels on a visit to the town booksellers. On that first day he bought as many books he had money with him for, and rushed home to devour them.

It was almost like Sherlock’s discovery of the violin given how excited he was. Sherlock took to running up to his room to continue reading as soon as he returned home from school; and many times Mycroft or the housekeeper had to remind Sherlock to eat meals, sleep during the night, and also to do his schoolwork (though usually Sherlock had already finished it either at school or earlier in the week). They would go to his room around midnight to make sure he was asleep and not still reading- even though Mycroft suspected Sherlock continued reading under his sheets with a torch late into the night.

Sherlock fell in love with these mystery and detective novels, making a journey to the bookseller’s once a week or every other week to buy more. After half a dozen or so trips he threatened to exhaust the bookseller’s stock of the novels; so, instead of trying to convince Sherlock to return some of them- nearly impossible since Sherlock would never surrender them and all were already well-thumbed, Mycroft simply gave the owner a relatively small amount to purchase more.

These novels, and the intricacy of the mysteries and plots in them, lit a fierce spark in Sherlock. Once he had read more than a dozen of them Sherlock began creating his own mysteries and then deducing the solution well before it was revealed, with amazing accuracy. Soon there were often only three places where Sherlock could be found: in his room playing on his violin, at the bookseller’s, or sneaking around the house or the yard, poking his nose into everything. Well, and at school of course. 

Mysteries had become a major part of his life, just as important as the violin.

The housekeeper and Mycroft were thrilled Sherlock had found another interest he enjoyed so much. Mummy was slightly skeptical- such novels were often so gruesome, yet they were better than his ‘deduction’ games. However, when Mycroft reassured her Sherlock was still doing well in school, she changed her mind. And it wasn’t long before all the shelves in Sherlock’s room were crammed with his collection of novels, his favorite ones clearly dog-eared and well-thumbed.

~~~~~~

A little later when Sherlock discovered the crime pages in the papers, things began to change. 

Sherlock would go into the kitchen and take the pages back to his room to pour over them for hours. He read through all the articles, dismissing them as uninteresting or interesting- the latter meaning he gathered all the information he could find on the subject. However long it took Sherlock to try to solve them- and he wasn’t always successful or solved them before the police- usually differed depending on the complexity of the crime or how much information Sherlock could gather.

When Sherlock did need more information he often went to Mycroft with odd questions in a range of topics, as if his older brother somehow had the answers he needed. Of course, some answers Mycroft did know; but just as often he didn’t. How long it took a certain sized book to burn, if it was possible to get from A to B in a certain time, if it was easier or more effective to poison someone’s food rather than their drink or their medicine, and other strange questions Mycroft wasn’t certain an almost eleven year old should want the answers to. Yet he suspected that the answers Sherlock didn’t get from him, he would try to find out by other means- likely his own experimentations.

The crime papers soon became almost an obsession for Sherlock, and he would push himself ruthlessly to solve the crimes; especially during school holidays when he wasn’t bothered by school or schoolwork. These crimes were a challenge and source of constant excitement for a mind that often didn’t get enough- school barely fazed him at all, and the violin was only an outlet for his excessive energy. Mycroft and the housekeeper did their best to try to keep Sherlock occupied, but many times it wasn’t enough- Sherlock’s mind was too tightly wound and worked too fast.

Until that point, Sherlock had been happy with the thrill of excitement he felt after successfully solving a crime. Of course that only lasted a day or so before Sherlock buried himself in the next case. But that brief period of happiness was always a relief to see.

Then a young boy by the name of Carl Powers drowned in a London public pool, and the case was ruled an accident, not a homicide, by the police.

Sherlock had been following the case faithfully, seeming to feel a strange connection to the older boy. He poured over every article, taking several pages of notes in a notebook. For days Sherlock reread his notes and the articles countless times, as well as any new information he could find.

At first it looked like nothing more than an open and shut case of accidental drowning. But Sherlock refused to believe that no matter what; he insisted there was more to it.

When a week later the police closed the case for good, ruling it an accident, Sherlock threw a tantrum unlike any other he’d had in years. He tossed his books and notebooks around his room, refused to eat or leave his room, and could be heard alternatively plucking or scratching angrily at his violin.

This continued for several days while Sherlock restarted his investigation all over again, in case he had missed something. Sherlock borrowed Mycroft’s set of encyclopedias for supposed research purposes. Mummy refused to get him his own since Mycroft already had a set the two could share, and there were also some things in those encyclopedias that could corrupt her youngest son.

Every time Mycroft had to go into Sherlock’s room to retrieve whichever volume Sherlock had taken, his brother was almost always laying on the floor bent over the large volume with all his notes and the articles spread around him. It would usually take Sherlock a few minutes to notice Mycroft was even there, and often he only noticed because Mycroft cleared his throat or said his name. Sherlock was so engrossed in his work- it really was too bad Sherlock didn’t put this much effort into other things- that he often forgot Mycroft was there just as soon as he realized, and quickly ended any attempts at conversation. Sherlock hated being interrupted while he was working, or having his thought process disturbed; even by Mycroft who was the only one who even came close to understanding how Sherlock’s brain worked.

~~~~

The day Sherlock had his epiphany was a suspiciously typical early autumn day. Sherlock had been locked in his room for nearly a week, and Mycroft had been somewhat enjoying the silence as he prepared for school. Mummy was preoccupied- as she had been for a while- with getting prepared for the autumn season, and the housekeeper was in the kitchen making biscuits in yet another attempt to coax Sherlock out of his room (and also because she tended to bake when anxious).

Mycroft was worried about his brother, but trying to hide it in order not to tempt Sherlock’s annoyance with him. Lately his brother had become even more adverse to people- even Mycroft- hovering over him and worrying, or even thinking such thoughts in his direction. Every once in a while Mycroft gave in to his urge and walked past Sherlock’s door just to check on his brother. And sometimes, just to be sure Sherlock was still there and hadn’t disappeared off somewhere, he pressed his ear to the door to hear the rustling of pages being turned rapidly.

That day Mycroft passed his brother’s door just in time to hear a load ‘thunk’ followed barely a second later by an outburst of “shoes! The shoes, of course!”

Choosing to satisfy his curiosity, even if Sherlock might tell him off for distracting him, Mycroft reached out and turned the knob. The door opened to reveal a room that looked like it hadn’t been tidied in a very long time: clothes strewn everywhere, the curtains pulled so it was nearly dark, books in stacks of various heights around the bed in places where Sherlock would have tripped over them if he’d been using the bed at all, and Sherlock’s crime-solving headquarters taking up most of the floor in the room with a collection of pillows, papers, notes, and the encyclopedias in the center.

Mycroft closed the door behind him, cutting off the light from the hallway, and picked his way across the room towards his brother. As he came to a stop by where Sherlock was currently rummaging through his collection of articles at lightning speed- completely ignoring him- Mycroft absently wondered if it would be any use to try and pick up at all.

He watched Sherlock for several seconds before giving in and calling warily, “Sherlock-“

His brother leapt to his feet and turned to face Mycroft with a wild look in his eyes. “It’s the shoes, Mycroft! The shoes are the key!” He was practically bouncing in place in his excitement, curls sticking in all directions and the elaborate dressing gown Mummy bought him last Christmas partially hanging off his left shoulder and loosely tied to the side.

“What shoes, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked curiously, carefully watching his precious encyclopedia to keep it safe from his brothers’ active feet. Some might say Sherlock looked possessed; for Mycroft it was just how his brother became when extremely excitable.

Sherlock didn’t seem to have heard his question. He began pacing back and forth in the small space where he’d been laying, as if not able to let off his energy quickly enough. “Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t the police notice? There has to be some competent officers amongst all the idiots.”

“Sherlock-“ Mycroft began to scold, feeling as if they’d somehow jumped back into the past.

“It has to be the key,” Sherlock continued, still moving restlessly with his hands pressed together under his chin. “Without them the entire thing looks like an accident. But with them,” Mycroft wasn’t certain if he was imagining the gleam in his brothers’ eyes, “with them it becomes a real mystery.”

Mycroft sighed quietly and reached out to still Sherlock’s restless pacing. He hadn’t studied the articles as closely as Sherlock, but he could see his brother was excited about something. Mycroft gently squeezed Sherlock’s arm and repeated sternly, “what shoes, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was too excited to even make a fuss over Mycroft touching him. “Exactly!” He exclaimed loudly. “There weren’t any shoes, the police couldn’t find his shoes anywhere at the pool. But that’s clearly nonsense, isn’t it? If you go swimming of course you bring shoes, it’s like forgetting to take a towel. He had to have had his shoes at some point that day, yet they seem to have disappeared. So obviously they have to be important.”

Sherlock paused for a brief second to take a breath, and then said to himself, “phone, I need a phone. Where can I… the study!”

Then, before Mycroft- who was still startled from hearing so much from his brother at one time- could react, Sherlock slipped his grip and ran out of the room.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called after his brother, but Sherlock was already long gone. Mycroft sighed tiredly- Sherlock was always darting off somewhere now in his enthusiasm- and went after him. Finally having a breakthrough after all this time had to be a good sign, especially with this case which had so thoroughly grabbed Sherlock’s attention. Yet Mycroft still worried about the risk of Sherlock taking this too far and becoming carried away.

His fears proved to be well-founded when Mycroft stopped in front of the open door to the study. Inside, Sherlock was crouched on the armchair next to the desk, his elbows propped up on the armrest and the phone from the desk cradled between his cheek and shoulder.

And he was currently going off at whoever was on the other end.

“No, no you don’t understand. No, I have to talk to the person in charge of the Carl Powers case. Yes, yes it is important… Why does that matter? No, it doesn’t!”

 

Mycroft wished he could hear the other side of this conversation, if only so he would know just what they were saying to so annoy Sherlock. But as he couldn’t, Mycroft hurried forward to interrupt before Sherlock could really offend someone.

As he stopped in front of Sherlock, Mycroft heard his brother snap, “It doesn’t matter how old I am, I have important information about the Carl Powers case!” Sherlock’s voice was quickly rising in pitch as he became even more annoyed and impatient. “Look, just tell whoever’s in charge that Carl Powers didn’t drown, it was murder. They need to look for the shoes. Yes, the shoes- the missing shoes!” Sherlock barked at the poor person on the other end.

Mycroft leant forward and pulled the phone away from Sherlock, deciding it would be best to intervene at this point.

He raised the phone to his ear and said in a smooth, reassuring voice, “Hello? Who is speaking? Ah, hello Officer Perkin. I hope your day is going well. Yes, yes I understand.” Mycroft glanced down at Sherlock who was staring at the phone as if the force of his stare could will it back into his hand. “I do apologize, my brother fancies himself an amateur detective of a sort. He has been reading all the articles in the papers.”

He noticed Sherlock was glowering at him now, clinging so tightly to the arm of the chair he was likely leaving marks. Mycroft frowned slightly in concern, but his attention was drawn back to the phone when the officer resumed talking. “Hmm? Oh yes, children can be quite strong-minded and imaginative, can’t they?” He forced a polite laugh from his throat. “My brother more so than usual.”

Mycroft turned away from Sherlock to lean against the front of the desk. “I apologize again for my brother’s interruption of your investigation. I hope you continue your excellent work.” He made a polite, ambiguous noise. “Yes, yes of course. And to you as well.” Mycroft lowered the phone from his ear, but then the officer continued speaking and he was forced to respond “yes,” before quickly replacing the phone on its base.

Mycroft turned to confront Sherlock for doing something as reckless as phoning the police. “Sherlock, you cannot just ring-“ But then he saw the intensely wounded look in Sherlock’s eyes; similar only to how he’d looked back when Mummy called his deductions lies and stories. Mycroft had hated seeing his brother like that, and felt the same way now.

Yet he couldn’t understand why Sherlock was looking at him like that. He had only been trying to help Sherlock avoid getting into trouble with the police, which would likely have happened if his brother had insisted on pestering them. Solving crimes on his own was fine if Sherlock let the police do their own work.

“Sherlock, you must understand that-“ Mycroft began to try and soothe his brother, but Sherlock didn’t let him get very far.

“You told him I was just making things up, that I was being strong-minded,” Sherlock accused vehemently, his voice thick with bewilderment. His eyes carried the first signs of frost, but his fingers had loosened slightly on the arm of the chair. “Why would you say that? You know how hard I’ve been working on that case! I’ve been investigating it for a long time, and now you’ve ruined everything! In minutes!”

Mycroft quietly ‘tsked.’ Of course Sherlock wouldn’t understand; he never had gotten the point of not doing everything himself. He scolded, “There’s no need for such dramatics, Sherlock. I know you have been working hard on this case. However, the police are the professionals so it would be better if you leave the actual investigating to them- and stop playing at it yourself.”

He paused to take in the frustration on Sherlock’s face- better than how cold he’d looked seconds ago. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere. “It’s perfectly alright for you to enjoy your crime novels, Sherlock. But it isn’t right for you to disrespect the hard work those officers do every day. You need to leave them be and go back to your novels.”

Mycroft hadn’t really meant to sound so stern; but Sherlock had to understand that no matter how much he enjoyed solving these crimes, it wasn’t the same as doing the work professionally. An interest or hobby was very different from an honest occupation.

Mycroft met his brother’s eyes again, willing to do anything to convince Sherlock and also help his brother learn the importance of respecting authority. But that horrible look had returned to Sherlock’s eyes, casting a strange light on his face.

Sherlock pressed himself back into the corner of the chair as if he wasn’t able to get far enough away from Mycroft. Sherlock had never really liked to be touched or held, except in those very early years whenever he was extremely distraught. But Sherlock still had never actually shied away from him before; well, until the disastrous dinner party. Sherlock hadn’t acted the same towards him since then.

“Sherlock, I’m not-“ Mycroft started to say quickly, taking a step towards Sherlock. But his brother only continued trying to get away, looking like he was considering scrambling over the arm or the back of the chair. “Don’t-“

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock proclaimed in a quiet, bewildered voice. His light eyes narrowed, and Sherlock had never seemed so distant until then. “You don’t understand why this was so important to me. Why I wanted to tell them about the shoes. Or why I like the mystery novels, the real reason.”

It was a very long time before Sherlock whispered, “You don’t understand,” sounding like the ground was being torn open beneath him.

Mycroft watched as his brother shifted up onto the arm of the chair, drawing his legs underneath him. Mycroft stiffened, feeling strangely nervous due to a pestering feeling that something important was happening here- that from now on it would all be different.

But that wasn’t true, nothing would be different. Eventually Sherlock would come around and understand. And while he didn’t completely understand just as Sherlock was accusing him, he was trying. It was just that as Sherlock grew older, sometimes Mycroft found it difficult to keep up with his brother anymore. Sherlock was already so brilliant…

“I am trying to understand, Sherlock,” Mycroft told his brother honestly, hearing the slight plea he hadn’t quite been able to hide in his words. “Just give me time, and I will.”

Even before he had finished, Sherlock was shaking his head, either in argument or disbelief or something else Mycroft couldn’t name. Then Sherlock said to himself, as he did actually scramble over the arm of the chair, “You always understand, you always do.”

Mycroft felt his chest tighten at the sentiment from Sherlock, to actually know that Sherlock had such faith in him. Faith he wasn’t living up to the moment, it seemed.

He tried one last time to persuade Sherlock that he could understand. “Sherlock, I know this was important to you. You may just need to explain the rest to me, to help me understand.”

From where he stood with the chair in-between them, shielding him, Sherlock rapidly shook his head. His eyes were hard and accusing. “No, that’s not right. You’re wrong. Wrong!” The storm was returning, Sherlock’s entire form trembling. “You don’t understand, and you obviously never will!”

Mycroft only just heard his brothers quiet, “not anymore” as Sherlock brushed past him, not quite running for the door.

By the time Mycroft could move and breathe again, he went to the doorway just in time to hear Sherlock’s door slam closed.

~~~~~~~~~

When Mycroft left for university two and a half weeks later, Sherlock had yet to come out of his room or give any sign he was still alive. He didn’t even appear to say goodbye, no matter how much Mummy or the housekeeper insisted.

But Mycroft had partly expected this. It seemed he had finally completely burnt bridges with his brother; just in time for them to be separated for most of a year.

Yet, when he glanced at the upstairs window just before getting into the car, Mycroft saw a pale face there for only a second or so; as if someone was standing there, watching him.

With a small, sad smile Mycroft ducked into the car to be taken away.

~~~~~

That night Sherlock carefully built a fire in the study, and tossed his once-precious coat and all his news articles and notes onto it. Then he watched as it all burned, drinking from a bottle of fine wine stolen from the cellar.

He tried to pretend the tears were from the fire, and not his brother’s betrayal.

~~~ * ~~~

End of Act 1: The Early Years

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters covering Sherlock and Mycroft's childhood, nicknamed by myself as 'The Early Years.' Next will be an interlude, followed by two or three chapters covering his university years, introduction to Lestrade, and finally his meeting with John. These are all completely written.
> 
> Also, if anyone has any ideas for stories from this verse they would like me to write, I would love to hear them! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude before we jump into the next part of Sherlock's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please read the author's notes at the END.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Feedback appreciated!

In the few years between when Mycroft went to uni and Sherlock followed, the two brothers rarely exchanged words or set eyes on each other.

The first time he saw Sherlock on each visit Mycroft was always stunned by how much his brother had changed.

In the first years Sherlock transformed from a quiet, sullen eleven year old to an almost withdrawn teenager with unexpected mood swings.

Then Sherlock unfortunately hit puberty and next Mycroft was surprised by a lanky-limbed Sherlock nearly a foot taller than the Sherlock in his memories, and whose voice- the little he spoke- refused to settle.

By the next time Mycroft saw Sherlock- nearly a year later since he had been too busy over the holidays to visit- his brother had finally grown into his body and height, while his voice had settled into a startlingly deep baritone. Mycroft had been so surprised he’d actually made a double-take, drawing a smirk from Sherlock.

His brother was growing up; doing so all too quickly since Mycroft often still thought of Sherlock as the little boy who had depended on him and come to him for comfort.

It was a picture that clashed fiercely with this tall teenager with a deep voice, piercing gaze, and knowing smirk.

Of course Mycroft wasn’t helped at all by his brother. Sherlock relentlessly insisted on being difficult for as long as Mycroft’s visits lasted.

The few times Mycroft chose to return home, Sherlock would lock himself in his room and refuse to come out or let anyone in. On the one or two occasions Sherlock came when he was called down for meals- but only when it had been so long he was starving- he would always glower across the table at Mycroft throughout the entire meal.

And in the following years Sherlock continued to change even more.

On one holiday Mycroft returned home to discover Sherlock had decided to cut his hair extremely short- much to Mummy’s distress. But then by Mycroft’s next visit it had mostly grown back to its previous length.

Sherlock also continued to grow, to where by the time he was eighteen Sherlock was almost as tall as Mycroft. He took after Mummy with his thin, delicate frame and high cheekbones, but the sharp eyes were all Sherlock.

And finally, after that summer, Sherlock went to university.

For the first time in years, Sherlock seemed actually excited to go off to school. Mycroft suspected this was because university was both a chance for Sherlock to escape from the memories of their family home, and an opportunity for him to learn from educated professors with the potential to not be idiots.

Mycroft only hoped his brother would not be disappointed.

One day, Sherlock disappeared from the house. All he left behind was a short note saying he had left early for university, and warned them not to come after him.

When Mycroft went to look in Sherlock’s room, the first thing he noticed was that it hadn’t changed very much over the years. The room was just as cluttered and messy as he remembered, although some of the clothes seemed to have actually made it to the dresser. The bookshelves were still overflowing; even if on first glance Mycroft didn’t see any of the crime novels Sherlock had once enjoyed so much. Perhaps Sherlock had taken them with him- as well as his violin, a fair amount of clothes, and the chemistry set (strange he had kept that all these years).

The room oddly felt like a museum, with all the reminders of their childhood together. But, Mycroft thought as he left the room and shut the door behind him, they were both too old for that now… and that time was past.

At the end of that week, Mycroft returned to London and buried himself in the work of his new government position; all the while trying to keep the worries about his brother to the back of his mind.

(He wasn’t entirely successful).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next will be (probably) three chapters covering Sherlock's university years, introduction to Lestrade, and finally his meeting with John. These are all completely written.
> 
> Also, if anyone has any ideas for stories from this verse they would like me to write, I would love to hear them! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter begins Act II of this story, covering Sherlock's university years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've been a little wrapped up with work. But I hope to get back to posting regularly!
> 
> Just a warning: this chapter has not been beta'd, so be aware I have no familiarity with UK universities, drugs or drug use, or anything else that may not make sense. I apologize for any Americanisms. Also, there is what might be considered a dark, manipulative relationship in this chapter. Just be forewarned.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!
> 
> Any feedback would be very warmly welcomed; or any ideas for stories from this verse they would like me to write, I would love to hear them! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it.

By midway through the first term, uni had both exceeded and fallen short of his expectations.

His professors had turned out to not all be complete idiots, although some were closer than others. But they were, for the most part, well-versed in their respected areas; Sherlock found himself learning quite a lot, and enjoying (most of) the experience. He was finally being challenged again.

His classmates were a different story altogether. Within a few days he had compiled a list of the various categories they fell into. Most either came from wealthy families and at the school courtesy of their parents money, or they had studied hard and gotten good enough marks to be placed in. These two types of students were the easiest to identify, and Sherlock worked to avoid the former. He wasn’t here to make connections (like his brother), he was here to learn.

In the last few years Sherlock had taught himself to see people as real people and to not pick them apart with every detail he saw. He wasn’t always successful- there was so much you could conclude about a person from even a quick glance, but he learned to quickly shut down that train of thought and internalize it. He had been teaching himself to (at least appear to) be a regular human being, as much as he hated it. He also tried to quiet his hyperactive mind so it didn’t roar away at him all the time. If he couldn’t be accepted by his own family as who he really was, then perhaps he could be accepted by his classmates as a more ordinary version of himself.

His strategy worked almost to the holidays. He developed a reputation around school as the quiet Holmes boy who always sat in the back of the room and answered every question correctly. He was also considered a recluse since he only ever came out of his room for class, to study at the library (when the compactness of his room became too much), or for a rare meal. His classmates thought of him as a bit odd and not very friendly, but still approachable. Teachers often said he was a brilliant student- as long as you kept his attention, one added- but they didn’t always agree with remarks he made in his work. His papers often returned with excellent marks yet covered with red pen and long comments. And maybe his mind did wander in certain classes, and his opinions and views weren’t entirely typical, but it was still all fine.

Then holidays came, and Sherlock decided to stay at school rather than face Mummy- and likely Mycroft - for an insufferable few weeks.   
There were other students staying as well, so the campus wasn’t entirely abandoned. But he still spent most of his time in the library or in his room.

Finally one night he had had enough when the walls of his room seemed to be closing in on him. Sherlock went to the lounge and sat at one of the tables in the corner. A group of other students were on the sofa watching some kind of game show, but he didn’t notice the noise; it faded into the background, and soon Sherlock was lost in his book.

He became aware of his surroundings again when Sherlock realized the other students in the room had progressed to yelling at each other and the television. He reluctantly tore himself from his book and focused his attention on the other boys sitting a yard or so away.

They seemed to be trying to come up with an answer to a trivia question from the show, but couldn’t agree on an answer amongst themselves- hence the shouting. Sherlock listened to the program, and when the host repeated the question seconds later he answered without meaning to, “ketchup.”

Over on the sofa, all three boys suddenly stopped shouting. They turned to look at him over the back of the sofa, with various levels of incredulity in their expressions. Finally the blonde-haired one, who was in two of Sherlock’s classes, asked cautiously, “What was that, Holmes?”

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to one side and answered after a pause, “it was ketchup that was sold as medicine in the 1830’s.”

For several long seconds the boys just stared at him, looking completely baffled. Then they all shared a look, as if conferring, and turned back to him. “How did you know that?”

Sherlock frowned, surprised himself. How had he known that? Suddenly what must have been a memory he’d long forgotten came to him, one of lying in his bed listening to Mycroft read… completely comfortable and happy.

Sherlock vigorously shook his head, shoving the memory away and burying it deep in his mind. He didn’t need to be reminded of what had once been. Aloud he replied honestly, “I’m not sure, I just did.”

The other boys looked like they didn’t believe him. The dark-haired one, looking the least convinced, sat up and turned to fully face Sherlock. “Alright then, how about ‘what snake isn’t poisonous?’

Sherlock consulted his memory for a few minutes, pushing away more painful memories that were stirred up. Then he finally came up with the answer and told the boy, waiting for him to be impressed.

But instead the boy just looked even more infuriated with him, face twisting horrifically. He then went on to ask Sherlock rapid-fire questions, barely waiting for him to answer before asking the next. When Sherlock had gotten five correct answers in a row, the boy looked ready to throw himself at Sherlock even as his friends tried to calm him.

Meanwhile Sherlock kept his expression carefully blank, but inside he was terribly confused. Why was the other boy so angry with him for knowing these answers? Wasn’t the entire purpose of coming to uni to learn more and expand their knowledge? Or was the boy intimidated by Sherlock knowing more than he did, just like those children all those years ago?

“You’re such a rich, stuck-up know it all, Holmes!” The boy shouted at him, practically spitting in anger. “You only know so much because your parents are wealthy enough they could throw money away on private tutors! You only got here on their money, so you have to study all the time just to keep up with the rest of us!”

Sherlock found his temper fraying not only at the idea that the other boy was yelling at him for being smart, but also for supposedly being one of the students reliant on their parents money- which he wasn’t in any sense. He had gotten into uni completely on his own, without any help from his family.

In a quiet, cold voice he had perfected over the years, Sherlock replied, glaring for good measure, “the reason why I know so much more than you lot is because not only do I actually study, but I have also been reading for rather a long time.” He flicked his gaze up and down the other boy, in anger reading the boy as he hadn’t in years. “Unlike you, who instead of studying choose to sneak out after hours to go… down to the pub, isn’t it?”

Sherlock smirked as the accused boy tried to vault over the back of the sofa, still barely restrained by his friends. Obviously he had hit quite the nerve.

“You’re a bastard, Holmes!” The boy shouted. “A total bastard!”

Sherlock just continued to smirk, his chest lighter than it had been in months. It felt wonderful to finally speak his mind again, to say his observations aloud.

In complete silence he gathered his books and walked towards the door, not looking at the other boys. But their shouting followed him all the way back to his room.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

The next day Sherlock went to class, only to discover that his reputation had drastically changed overnight. Everyone suddenly gave him a wide berth and wary looks, as if he was a volcano about to erupt at any moment.

It barely took him any time to realize the boy from last night had been busy spreading rumors about what had happened among the rest of their classmates. Of course, things had been embellished as they usually were, and now he was being shunned like a social outcast.

But that was fine, he could deal with this. Sherlock had hoped people at university would be more accepting, yet obviously that had just been wishful thinking. So that first day Sherlock kept his head down and suffered through the glares and whispers, then quickly returned to the solace of his room.

For the rest of the year, Sherlock stayed in his room except for when he absolutely had to go to class. It wasn’t that he was hiding; he was just saving himself from having to suffer the dense idiots who were his classmates. He also curried the favor of his chemistry teacher, who was much more welcoming, and was awarded a key to the lab to use whenever he wanted. The lab quickly became the place he went when he needed to get away from his room, but also wanted to avoid his classmates.

Unfortunately all the time he spent in the lab only fueled the rumors spread about him.

~~* ~~ * ~~~

The summer holidays went by relatively quickly, and he spent most of the days helping his chemistry and biology teachers, or doing his own experiments, and studying.

He did go home for two weeks, mostly under Mummy’s orders. The first week was fine, he was mostly just left on his own; but then Mycroft came home as well so Sherlock spent the rest of his visit locked in his room- which didn’t really feel like his anymore- and left early. At least at school he was on his own and able to do whatever he wanted without anyone pestering him. He didn’t feel as restricted there, with the walls closing in on him, as he did at home.

His second year began rather quietly, almost just like last term. The only difference was that this time he had the support of some of his teachers, and the use of the lab to help distract and entertain him. Especially to keep him from his classmates who were still as hostile as they had been last term.

Sherlock had resigned himself to another boring, lonely term since he doubted this one would be any different. But then he had what seemed to be a chance encounter out on the school grounds.

He only very rarely wandered out to the grounds- there was more of a chance of encountering his classmates there than if he stayed in his room. But sometimes the call of the view from his window became too much for him to ignore, so he would take as many of his textbooks as he could carry and escape outside onto the lawn. 

That particular day had been more trying than usual; his classmates had been giving him even colder looks lately, and ignoring him completely. So as soon as class was over Sherlock escaped to his favorite tree, keeping his eyes fixed as he walked.

He successfully made it out to the tree and had just settled in underneath it with his chemistry text, when he heard an animal barking nearby. Sherlock had a disparaging thought about rich snobs who thought the school grounds doubled as a dog park, and drew his legs up closer to his chest. He was completely intent on ignoring the animal and its thoughtless owner.

Yet, frustratingly, the barking only grew closer until it was nearly right in his ear. And when he looked up from the text he could no longer concentrate on, the miserable little animal was standing next to his leg eying him.

Sherlock glared at it, hoping to drive it away. But the animal just continued staring up at him. So Sherlock huffed angrily and went back to trying to focus on his text.

A few seconds later there was the sound of someone running on grass- athletic but not quite in shape, wearing shoes slightly too large for him, has been running for a while- and then stop next to him, breathing in short gasps.

Sherlock glanced briefly up at the newcomer, ready to observe and then dismiss him as he always did. But, something about the man caught his interest… and he couldn’t.

Instead Sherlock carefully studied the other man, taking in the neatly pressed expensive trousers and shirt, the carefully styled dark hair, the slightly too large shoes- here was the living image of a wealthy student trying to fit in with his peers, and completely comfortable with his place in life.

“Hello,” the other student greeted, causing Sherlock’s gaze to jerk up to his face. He was smiling, why was he smiling like that? “I apologize for King, he doesn’t typically run off on his own.” The man straightened to his full height- tall, takes advantage of it- then took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “I hope he didn’t bother you at all.”

Sherlock looked down at the animal. He wasn’t fooled at all by its innocent expression; the man had likely set this up ahead of time and then watched him. Some people were just predictable. “No,” Sherlock replied shortly, and then returned to his text.

He had managed to become engrossed in the book again and was soaking up the information when the man, who had apparently not gone away as Sherlock had hoped, spoke yet again. “What are you reading?”

Without looking up from the text, or losing his place, Sherlock replied, “a textbook.”

Maybe a year ago, when he still had hopes for university and his peers, Sherlock would have been friendlier with the man and at least attempt a conversation; but now he knew better.

“Ah,” the man commented uncomfortably. Sherlock heard the man’s clothes shift, and when he glanced over the other student was clipping a leash to the animal’s collar. Ah, so the leash had been unclipped and not slipped then; this encounter had definitely been planned.

Sherlock resumed reading one more time, hoping the man would get the hint this time.

But unfortunately he seemed to be as thick as the rest of their peers. “My name is Sebastian, Sebastian Wilkes,” the man introduced himself in a surprisingly patient voice given how cold Sherlock knew he was being.

Sherlock started when a hand suddenly appeared right in front of his eyes, and he pulled away from it. He looked at the man, only to find the other student was smiling again while holding out his hand. No one had done or even tried this since his reputation had been destroyed last year. This man had to know who he was; Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if the entire school knew of him. So why…?

He stared at the other man’s- Sebastian’s- hand for a long moment, weighing the consequences.

Then, finally, he decided to take a chance. “Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, lightly taking the hand in his own and shaking it.

Quickly, before he could see the sudden recognition followed by disgust, Sherlock buried himself in his book. It was a tactical retreat, not because he was scared or his heart pounding.

“Ah, you’re the Holmes boy then,” the man commented knowingly.

And with that comment, all of Sherlock’s weak hopes crumbled. So the other student really had planned all this then and was just introducing himself to be polite. Sherlock tucked his legs even closer to his chest so he was nearly folded in half, and bent his head down   
even further.

He waited for the whisper of shoes on grass that meant the man was walking away, while at the pretending he wasn’t listening.

“Are you as insolent as everyone says you are?”

Surprising himself, Sherlock looked up again. He kept his expression carefully mild and didn’t let his confusion show as he answered honestly, “Only when it’s deserved.”

The man actually laughed at this, even if Sherlock hadn’t meant to be amusing. “Well. I’m glad to have that cleared up.” After a short pause he offered his hand again, “How about getting a drink?”

Sherlock wondered exactly how he looked just then. He hadn’t felt like this in years, and there was a strange warmth in his chest. But a drink was just a drink, wasn’t it? This wouldn’t last.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

To his surprise it did last beyond that first drink.

Sebastian turned out to be a pleasant, if slightly ambitious, student studying politics and finance. He didn’t even seem to mind that Sherlock didn’t talk very much, even to him. 

It was because of Sebastian that Sherlock had his first all-nighter (but not for studying), used his lock-picking skills for not quite legal activities, and went on his first drinking binge, among other things. It had been years since Sherlock had enjoyed himself so much, yet he had a feeling Sebastian wasn’t; that Sebastian wanted to do… more.

Having to concentrate on using his lock-picking or plotting skills, did help quiet his mind and the insistent thoughts that still plagued him- no matter how hard he worked to ignore them. But the distraction always only lasted a short time before the thoughts returned with a vengeance. Sherlock knew he desperately needed a more permanent solution.

He never told Sebastian about any of this, or about his past affinity for crime novels and mysteries. Sherlock didn’t want to do anything to lose his first- well, the first person who actually liked and could stand his company, in years. Everyone else at university thought he was strange, but (for now) Sebastian seemed to think otherwise. Sherlock didn’t want to risk this.

That Christmas Sherlock had planned to go home for Christmas Eve and Day and then spend the rest of the holiday at school. But Sebastian, who knew Sherlock disliked his family but not specifically why, convinced him to go home with Sebastian instead. 

Sherlock hadn’t really taken much convincing since part of him didn’t really want to be on his own at school while everyone else was gone; but Sherlock also didn’t want to go home. So he went with Sebastian to his home, which turned out to be just as large- minus a few rooms- as the Holmes mansion; all though it did have much fewer gaudy decorations and actually looked lived in.

It was a strange experience for Sherlock, who had never before been invited to a classmate’s home. He tried to be on his best behavior and not show how nervous he was, but even with years of practice it was still difficult.

Mrs. Wilkes insisted on taking care of his every need and looking after him, while her husband spoke in a clipped voice and treated him to suspicious looks. Sherlock was still skilled at reading people, even if he didn’t actively practice his deductions anymore, but he wasn’t entirely sure why Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes were acting this way towards him. His mother, housekeeper, and teachers were the adults he used to being around the most. He had never met his classmate’s parents before and wasn’t sure what to do.

Luckily Sebastian seemed to noticed this (he had turned out to not be quite as idiotic as their peers) and tried to make Sherlock comfortable. The two of them always sat next to each other at meals, and since their rooms were next to each other Sebastian would often ask Sherlock over to talk. Well, Sebastian mostly talked and Sherlock just listened. Sebastian didn’t mind, and Sherlock would often stare out the window. Sebastian enjoyed talking.

Christmas turned out to be an awkward affair since Sherlock hadn’t known- despite the research he’d done- what to buy Sebastian’s parents, and they hadn’t had much advanced notice he was coming. Of course they tried not to make a fuss over this, at least Mrs. Wilkes did, but it still made Sherlock uncomfortable. He wanted to get along with Sebastian’s parents as well as he did with Sebastian, but he just didn’t know how.

Sherlock tried to tell Sebastian - and he turned out to be just as horrible at talking about these things as he’d always been- but Sebastian had just laughed and said not to worry. So Sherlock tried not to.

When they returned to school and classes resumed it took Sherlock two months this time before he declared all his professors- except for his long-enduring chemistry teacher- idiots and question why they were allowed to teach.

Sebastian had laughed and then taken him to the pub where they’d both gotten outrageously drunk and later stumbled back to Sebastian’s room at a ridiculously early hour. Neither of them went to their classes the next day, or in Sherlock’s case the day after as well. Sebastian kindly let him stay in the bed, wrapped in the covers and wearing night clothes for two whole days as he watched brainless television or read. When Sebastian finally forced him to eat, Sherlock ate only enough to satisfy and then disappeared back under the covers.

After that Sebastian left him alone again, and he quickly ran out of things to stave off his boredom and annoyance with professors and his peers. Television was boring and dull, he couldn’t focus on any of his textbooks, and he wasn’t quite desperate enough to unearth the few crime novels he’d reluctantly brought with him. Plus, all of his experiments in the lab were too delicate and couldn’t be fussed with for another few days.

Going to class wasn’t even an option.

So when Sebastian came through the door looking quite pleased with himself, Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued. 

He moved over a little as Sebastian came to sit next to him on the small bed. Sebastian then meticulously showed him how to tie off his arm, prep the needle, and then slip it under his skin without nicking a vein. All Sebastian’s movements were steady and practiced, and Sherlock greedily absorbed all of this new information; especially the blissful look on Sebastian’s face as the liquid disappeared into his body.

Sherlock quickly sat up and rolled over onto his knees to have a better view of Sebastian’s face and arm. It was utterly fascinating, and he was impatient to try it and see how it felt for himself.

He quickly reached for the needle Sebastian had discarded and tried to load it on his own just as Sebastian had showed him. But his hands were shaking too much and he couldn’t make it work.

Sebastian must have been watching this even through the haze he seemed to be in, because suddenly there was a light but firm grip on Sherlock’s wrist. He flinched a little, (he still didn’t like being touched), and then turned his head to look at Sebastian.

“Do you want some, Sherlock?” Sebastian asked patiently, smiling gently at him and looking amused by Sherlock’s eagerness. “Do you want to know how it feels?”

Sherlock nodded rapidly and closed his hand around the needle. It looked so good, so blissful, and maybe it would finally be the thing to   
quiet his raging mind. He needed some of it, just a little, just to know exactly what it was like. “Please, Sebastian. Please.”

A strange light entered Sebastian’s eyes then, and he began rubbing a circle on the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. “Mm, you’re so gorgeous when you beg. I can’t get enough of hearing it, it’s just so beautiful.” He pressed down slightly on the indent below Sherlock’s wrist then demanded, “Again, Sherlock. Beg me for it.”

Sherlock shuddered, his entire body trembling with need and at the way Sebastian was touching him. He didn’t really like begging, but if it would help convince Sebastian then, “Please, Sebastian, please. Let me try. I want to know. I want to feel.” He rocked forward to lean over Sebastian. “Please.”

The smile widened and Sherlock had barely a second to be curious before Sebastian used his grip on Sherlock’s wrist to pull him back down onto the bed.

Sebastian took the needle from him and sat up, his movements only a little unsteady. “It’s all right, Sherlock,” he soothed, checking the   
needle. “Just let me take care of you.” Sebastian wrapped the cloth carefully around his arm and tied it off, then bent over Sherlock again.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock whispered, surprised by how weak his voice sounded. He licked his lips, wetting them.

Sebastian turned his head to look, and this time the smile was kind. “Don’t worry, Sherlock,” he soothed, positioning the needle at Sherlock’s elbow. “It’s going to be wonderful. And I promise you won’t ever be bored again.”

Then there was a sharp prick followed by a wave of nausea as it entered his body.

He was finally carried away from the world on absolute bliss; for the first time in his life his mind completely silent.

~~~ * ~~~

Sherlock lost track of how long he laid on the bed, surrendering himself to the effects of the drug… but it didn’t really matter.

When he drifted lazily back to awareness again, mind still blissfully blank, Sherlock turned his head towards a noise he was only faintly aware of. He saw Sebastian standing in the doorway wearing only a towel, and tried to shift his facial muscles into what he hoped was a smile.

He must have been somewhat successful because Sebastian chuckled and walked over to the bed. Sebastian sat down next to him, and sprawled over the bed even with only a towel on. “Well?” He asked with an expectant grin. “How do you feel?”

Sherlock gave him a weak smile, his eyes still not completely focused. “Brilliant,” he breathed, “really, really good.”

Sebastian grinned sharply and reached out a hand he placed on Sherlock’s head. “I’m glad. I told you you’d like it, didn’t I.” He shifted a little so he was leaning on his hand. “You look even more gorgeous than usual when you’re like this; all drugged and high.” Sebastian ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s lengthy curls. “I’m almost tempted to keep you this way, always. But you need your books and experiments, and I need to at least keep up the pretense of going to class.”

Sebastian pulled his hand away and sat up again. “So I am going to class, and you’ll be here- right here- when I come back.” His voice sounded more like a warning as he said, “Won’t you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock titled his head back a little to stare at the ceiling. “Mmm,” he agreed, watching black shadows dance in front of his eyes. Sherlock was trying to ignore the flood of thoughts creeping back just at the edge of his mind, ones the drug had earlier completely driven away.

He felt the bed move underneath him and heard it creak as Sebastian stood up; but Sherlock didn’t care to turn his head to look, and he wasn’t sure he could.

Instead he simply listened as Sebastian walked around the room getting dressed- boxers then trousers- gathering his texts and notebooks. Then, before Sebastian was even finished, Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant since it was unlikely he’d even remember.

Across the room the door opened with a loud creak and Sebastian called, “I’ll be back, Sherlock.” He laughed softly as he closed the door behind him. “Don’t wait for me.”

Sherlock sighed tiredly and let his body be swallowed into the mattress.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

The rest of the year passed in a wonderful drug laced blur. He was rarely completely aware of what day or month it was- the later became easier when he bothered to glance out the window, and Sebastian often told him when it was absolutely necessary to go to class. Sherlock had been a well enough student that if he took the exams and did well on them- which he always did- he could pass all his classes. It wasn’t as if he had to get exceptionally high marks, he just had to pass them enough to be able to graduate. Then he could show Mycroft he was able to get by perfectly fine without his brother. He didn’t need Mycroft at all.

So Sherlock only did what was absolutely necessary, and spent the rest of his time on Sebastian’s bed enjoying the blissful feeling and silence in his mind the drug provided him. After the first few times he learned the trick of dosing himself, so whenever the racing, prickly thoughts started to return Sherlock could quickly silence them. Sebastian didn’t like it when he did; Sebastian preferred to dose Sherlock himself for some reason. But sometimes Sebastian was away for too long and it was necessary he do it himself.

Sebastian, who didn’t seem to feel the pull of the drugs as strongly as Sherlock, made him eat and shower every once in a while… but that was unimportant and boring. He’d rather stay in bed and enjoy himself.

Mostly Sebastian was kind and sat with him when not in class, talking quietly and stroking Sherlock’s sweat-damped curls. But there were other times when Sherlock was too weak to dose himself, and Sebastian would take him right to the edge where his thoughts became like knives in his head and all the data about his surroundings felt like it would rise up and drown him and he desperately needed the bliss and the silence of the drug to save himself and please oh please just please take it all away- before finally giving him another dose and allowing him to be swept under again.

Sebastian didn’t seem to understand why he so desperately needed the influence of the drug, but Sherlock didn’t dare tell in case Sebastian would take it away. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to live without it anymore now.

But then around the middle of the term all his hard work keeping his thoughts and deductions inside his head and not sharing them aloud was ruined; all because the filter he’d built between his mouth and mind seemed to disappear with the drug.

He’d been lying on Sebastian’s bed dozing, using two fingers as a bookmark in the novel he’d read when able to focus. When the door burst open with a loud bang Sherlock fought his way back to full consciousness. Then he turned his head so his cheek was pressed into the pillow and watched as Sebastian strode in, noisily dropped his bag in front of the closet, and walked over to collapse onto the bed.

Sherlock raised his head a little, flicked his eyes quickly over Sebastian, and then rested his chin back on his crossed arms. “No luck with the girl, then?” He asked, engaging the wall in front of him in a staring contest. “Didn’t take well to you standing outside her window and then trying to climb inside?”

He’d barely finished when there was a strong jerk on his shoulder and Sherlock found himself spun over onto his back, staring up into Sebastian’s furious dark eyes. He didn’t try to get away or to move, but he did have to take several deep breaths to stave off the nausea.

“How did you know that?” Sebastian demanded angrily, then tugged on his shoulder again when Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. “How did you know, did you follow me?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You did, didn’t you?”

Sherlock made a soft annoyed noise and weakly tried to push Sebastian’s hand off his shoulder; but he’d never been very strong in the physical sense. “Of course I didn’t, do I look like I’ve been outside?” He asked, a little sarcasm creeping into his voice; Sherlock gestured to his still night clothes clad form.

Sebastian’s eyes followed his gesture then returned to stare doubtfully at him. “Then… how?”

Sherlock shook his head, wishing the silence would return. He turned his head so he was staring off to the left. “Never mind, it’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Sebastian shook him roughly. “Sherlock,” he said in a warning Sherlock recognized all too well. “Tell me.”

Sherlock hesitated for several seconds before exhaling loudly through his nose. “I will if you give me more.”

Sebastian smiled coldly at him, a strange look in his eyes that Sherlock couldn’t identify. “No, Sherlock. No compromises. Tell me and I might give you more.” His eyes flashed darkly. “If I want to.”

Sherlock sighed loudly again, but did give in. There was no use arguing with Sebastian over this. It seemed his days of deception were over and he had to accept that… no matter how difficult it may be. “All right, fine,” Sherlock relented, pushing a little at Sebastian’s hand.   
Sebastian reluctantly sat back, giving Sherlock just enough room to raise himself up a little on his elbows.

He glanced quickly over Sebastian one last time before beginning, not quite meeting the others eyes. It had been so long since he’d shared his deductions with another person, or even let himself focus on them, that it took a minute just to form them into something reasonable.  
“There’s dirt on your shoes, fresh dirt, slightly wet so it stuck to them; you’re more formally dressed than usual, and you took care to shave and comb your hair to look your best,” Sherlock rambled, avoiding Sebastian’s face so he couldn’t see the other man’s expression. “Which means a girl since you’d never put so much time into your appearance for any other reason. “There are faint scratches on your hands and slight marks on the knees of your trousers from the windowsill. And your irritation with the girl is quite obvious from how you stormed into the room and threw down your bag.”

Once he was finished, Sherlock locked his gaze on the wall and tensed, waiting for Sebastian to call him a freak and storm back out the door.

What felt like hours went by and Sherlock continued to wait, feeling suddenly jittery as the drug began to leave his system. He needed more, but could only hope Sebastian was still feeling generous enough to give him more after this.

Smooth fingers roughly grabbed his chin and forced him to turn his head back to face Sebastian. The other man’s eyes were practically gleaming and he was smiling; so, not angry then. “That’s an excellent trick, Sherlock. You had everything correct.”

Sherlock bristled slightly and frowned. “It’s not a trick,” he protested softly, reminded of all those years ago when Mummy called them made up stories, and then Mycroft-

Sebastian jerking his chin abruptly ended that train of thought, and made it disappear back into the fog. He tried to focus on Sebastian again as the other man spoke.

“It is a trick; a very, very good one,” Sebastian replied sternly, voice perfectly even. “How often can you do it? What do you need? How do you do it?” He asked rapidly. “Can you do it again?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling anger seeping through the blissful haze. He didn’t want to think or talk about this right now. It had been years and he didn’t want to make it part of his life again. “Sebastian…” He pleaded quietly, trying to convey his aversion.

But Sebastian just jerked his chin, tilting his head back further. “Answer, Sherlock, and I’ll give you more. I promise.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied petulantly and opened his eyes. “It’s not really a trick, and I can’t turn it on and off like you’re implying. It’s a constant voice in my head; I look at a person and I can tell half a dozen things about them- at least. I just piece together what I see,” Sherlock tried to explain, knowing he wasn’t doing very well at it. No one had ever really understood; well, one person had, but…

There was an almost predatory look in Sebastian’s eyes now as he leaned in even closer. “That’s amazing. Can you do it with anyone? Could you tell if someone’s lying to me, if a girl’s smitten with me, or is cheating on me? How about who has the connections or resources I’ll need? Or even just what will be on the test next week?”

Sherlock looked away from Sebastian. After years of keeping the voice in his head silent and to himself, now Sebastian was asking him not only to use it but to use it to help give Sebastian an advantage. He did owe the other man several times over, but still…

“I’m not psychic, Sebastian,” Sherlock snapped angrily; as if psychics really existed. “It’s about observation and the details. So no, I can’t help you on tests. But theoretically to the rest, all though I can’t promise anything.”

A smile slowly grew across Sebastian’s face; he released Sherlock’s chin to lightly trace his jaw. “Excellent,” Sebastian said in an almost hiss. “I can already tell we’ll make a wonderful team.”

Sherlock did his best not to shiver at the touch. “Sebastian,” he protested, voice cracking, “Just because I can, doesn’t mean-“

“Shh,” Sebastian told him, placing a hand over Sherlock’s mouth. He stretched forward, leaning over Sherlock. With his longer reach, from the small space between the mattress and wall Sebastian drew out the case where he hid his supply. 

He held it up for Sherlock to see, and laughed at the happy sigh. “You really do enjoy this, don’t you?” Sebastian asked, even though they both knew the answer. He loaded the needle and prepped Sherlock’s arm silently. “Just think of it as a reward; and preparation,” Sebastian coaxed as he sent the liquid into Sherlock’s system.

Before everything went silent and hazy, Sherlock considered that helping Sebastian might not be so awful.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

For the rest of the term Sebastian kept him happily drugged, but only so he could drag Sherlock out of bed to things he really didn’t want to go to. Luckily he never had to get very dressed up for anything.

At all of these… events, Sherlock would stand behind Sebastian’s shoulder smiling falsely at the other guests and never saying a word. He only ever spoke to Sebastian, whispering in the other man’s ear when asked for his observations. And if he performed well enough, Sebastian would keep him content for days with having to suffer any withdrawal.

Sebastian took to calling his observations his ‘little tricks,’ which wasn’t as annoying as it could have been since Sherlock was certain Sebastian meant it kindly. But every time it still reminded him of how Mummy, and then later Mycroft, had dismissed them. Of course it was no use telling Sebastian this since Sherlock still always responded. Yet Sherlock still carried a dislike of the phrase. It wasn’t a trick; it was the way his mind worked (when he let it).

Everything seemed to go well for the remainder of the term; Sherlock managed to pass all his exams without having to study barely at all, and spent the rest of his time in bed.

That was, until one afternoon when Sebastian came in looking very pleased with himself. Sherlock sat up and watched completely bewildered as Sebastian went around the room systematically picking up things.

After a minute or so he asked, confused, “What are you doing?”

Sebastian paused in the middle of folding his trousers and turned towards Sherlock. “Can’t you tell from your trick?” He asked sneeringly, glaring.

Sherlock tried to hide his responding flinch. “No, I can’t,” he replied sorrowfully, looking away.

He could hear the answering eye roll in Sebastian’s voice as the other man explained, resuming his folding, “I’m leaving, you idiot. It’s the end of the year.”

Sherlock frowned, shifting so he was kneeling up on the bed. Due to the haze he had been enjoying it took him longer, and he had to think harder, to come to a conclusion. “You aren’t staying for the summer then? I didn’t make any plans because I thought you would be here,” Sherlock told the other man, annoyed by his own desperation. “What am I supposed to do for the summer?”

Sebastian looked at him down his nose, but one side of his mouth twitched upward. “Those drugs do make you idiotically slow, don’t they?” He asked, though it sounded rhetorical so Sherlock didn’t answer. “This was my last year; after graduation I’ll be free of this hellhole.”

“What?” Sherlock said, completely shaken; the question slipped past his lips as he struggled to understand. “You’re leaving?”  
The first person in years who hadn’t minded his company, spending time with him despite his faults, was abandoning him? Why did this always happen? He had even done his best to keep silent and ignore the observations and details whispering at him this time. But apparently even that effort wasn’t enough.

Sebastian sighed and then said slowly, with exaggerated patience, “Yes, Sherlock. I’m leaving. I graduate in two days, so I won’t return in the fall. Now nod your head if you understand.”

Sherlock scowled at him, and leaned back onto his hands. “I might be a bit slow, but I’m not an idiot. I know what graduation means.” He looked away for a few seconds, but then glanced back again. “But you’re leaving me behind here, in this hellhole?” His voice came out sounding much more miserable than he’d wanted.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” Sebastian said, drawing out his name. He dropped the bag he’d been stuffing his clothes into. “You have to learn to survive on your own sometime. And you need to complete your degree as well, remember?” He sat on the edge of the bed. “If I stay to wait for you, I’d really only be holding you back.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” Sherlock quickly disagreed, crawling across the bed so he was next to Sebastian. “You wouldn’t be holding me back at all; you being here would actually help me!” He didn’t quite degrade himself by throwing himself at Sebastian and demand he not leave, like a child would; but Sherlock still tried to make Sebastian understand. “I’m useless on my own, you’ve seen me. Please, please stay.” This was his last chance.

Sebastian laughed and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Sherlock,” he said again, but this time it was warmer. “You’re not so useless on your own, you just need direction.” Sebastian shifted him until Sherlock was resting against his side. “And that’s just not something I can give you. It’s better for us to go our separate ways, and look back on this as an enjoyable two years.” He smiled and lightly bumped Sherlock. “After all, that’s really all this has been.”

Sherlock thought of a hundred things he could say, each a protest that the past two years had been much more than just fun, and a demand of why Sebastian couldn’t see or understand that. But somehow everything caught in his throat and all he could manage was a whispered, “Sebastian…”

And of course Sebastian misunderstood, jostling him again as he reassured with an amused look, “don’t worry Sherlock, I’ll give you the name of my supplier before I leave.”

That wasn’t what he’d wanted- not really; but since his words seemed to be betraying him, Sherlock simply remained silent and watched as Sebastian resumed packing.

Two days later, he made it a point- all though he had maybe forgotten- not to go to the ceremony. He also made sure to be absent when Sebastian came to get the last of his things right before departing.

Instead, Sherlock moved back into his old room- there wasn’t much to move- and resumed living there, ignoring the thin coating of dust that covered almost everything. All the things he hadn’t taken were still where he’d left them, including his violin. But for some reason Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to open the case and take out his prized instrument; so instead he sat on the windowsill and did his best to delete the entire past two years from his memory.

He managed to mostly delete the experience of what they’d done together, but he couldn’t completely delete how he’d felt about Sebastian.

The entire summer Sherlock locked himself in the library, reading everything he could in an attempt to ignore what he hadn’t been able to delete, and suffering short bouts of withdrawal between deliveries from the dealer he had found on campus.

When autumn came again Sherlock drowned himself even deeper in the drug, and only did enough work to scrape by in his classes. It had become more of a fight to just finish and have it over with then to prove anything anymore.

He also refused to say a word, and took to behaving more like a ghost than a real person. Sherlock overheard several of his teachers worrying over him, but as long as he was still passing they were unlikely to do anything; and it wasn’t as if his classmates cared.

The only relatively exciting thing to happen that entire year was a package that arrived a few weeks after Christmas holidays (he still hadn’t gone home).

There was barely any mail for him, even though it had been over a year since he’d last checked. There were several fliers for school events long past (not that he was interested in any of them), and a card or two with postmarks from a year or so ago and short emotional phrases written on them. He slipped those into his pocket, and then frowned at the package slip which had also been in his mail. The return address was from London, very unhelpful, and said it had come through the mail. Yet his name was clearly written on the slip, so it must be his.

Driven mostly by curiosity, he went to the mail window and turned in the slip to get a small square box in return. The box itself told him nothing more, except that it appeared professionally packaged and the elaborated London address was one he still didn’t recognize.

When Sherlock returned to his room he tossed the package down onto the bed, and then spent a good ten minutes trying to find a scissors before finally giving up and using his door key. Inside the box was a small stack of neatly folded newspapers, an envelope, and a black pay   
as you go mobile.

After a brief consideration, Sherlock reached down and lifted out the newspapers. They were backdated as far as his first year at university, and all had to do with crimes in London.

There was only one person who would send him a present like this; Sherlock just didn’t understand why. The two of them hadn’t spoken in years, and if Sherlock had his way they would continue not to speak to each other.

He picked up the phone next, fighting to get it out of its casing and then tossing that and the manual away. Sherlock sat down on the bed and pressed the power key on the phone, waiting impatiently for it to turn on and start up.

The main screen was a bland blue color Sherlock scoffed at and changed right away. A quick check confirmed the phone was both text and internet enabled, though there was no one he could think of he would want to text. Sherlock then checked the address list, and was unsurprised to find three numbers listed: the number for their childhood home with the name ‘Mummy,’ a number he didn’t recognize titled only ‘M,’ and the last a number titled ‘NSY.’ He stared at the last number the longest, debating, but finally decided it was too late and deleted it.

Sherlock then opened a new text and quickly typed out, ‘sod off ‘M.’’ He was just about to send it when an idea came to him and he quickly added ‘SH’ before sending. Sherlock didn’t wait for a response, not that he expected or wanted one; instead he quickly blocked the number listed as ‘M’ (it would only last for a while, but at least he’d have some peace), and then both disabled and carefully removed the inevitable tracker that had been put in the phone.

When he was satisfied with his work Sherlock tossed the phone across the room and disappeared into the haze again.

As he expected, it didn’t take very long for ‘M’ to find a way to bug his phone so he could pester Sherlock with messages and calls.

Since he didn’t want to actually destroy the phone- it would be too much work to find a new one, and it was nice having access to the internet without having to get up and dig out his laptop- Sherlock just took to deleting all the texts and voicemails without reading or listening to them. No matter how much his brother pestered him, Sherlock would never ever forgive him.

He didn’t look at the envelope or the newspapers either. He just gathered them together and went out to the lounge to burn them in the fireplace. (All the resulting smoke had been a complete accident.)

Months later he graduated from uni with a degree he would likely never use. Afterwards Sherlock returned to his room, gathered the few things he actually did need, and disappeared into the world for several years.

Everywhere he went Sherlock managed to avoid his brother’s surveillance, and people, to the point where Mycroft was never certain exactly where Sherlock was.

So the first time he finally saw Sherlock after so many years, was when his assistant informed him his brother was currently at a crime scene in the middle of London pestering a Sergeant Lestrade.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Greg Lestrade doesn't have the best first impression of Sherlock Holmes, or a second one. But the third...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone!
> 
> Just a warning: this chapter has not been beta'd, so be aware I have no familiarity with UK police regulations or procedure, drugs or drug use, or anything else that may not make sense. I apologize for any Americanisms. Also, there are a few POV changes, so just be forewarned.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading!
> 
> Any feedback would be very warmly welcomed; or any ideas for stories from this verse they would like me to write, I would love to hear them! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it.

The first time Greg Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes- if you could call it that- was after being called to the scene of a very ugly homicide.

The murder had happened on the second story of a row of flats just outside the heart of London. The landlord had gone to check on the woman who lived there after no one had seen her for weeks and the mail started to pile up. On her way in the landlord had noticed the garbage hadn’t been taken out, so the entire place smelled. It was on her way across the room to open a window that she literally stumbled over the body.

Once the older woman had calmed somewhat from her fit of hysterics, the police were quickly called in.

And so here they were.

Greg leaned against a wall in the flat, fighting back a yawn. They’d just wrapped up a case that had taken days- and several nights- to solve, and somehow they already had another. Since it seemed unlikely he would get sleep tonight, Greg was in desperate need of coffee.

“Lestrade!”

Greg tried not to show just how surprised he was at the call, and peeled away from the wall he had been using to keep himself upright. “Yes, sir?” He asked tiredly, dodging some of the other officers milling about as he crossed the small room.

DI Henderson turned to face him, looking just as irritable as Greg felt. His dark eyes glared down at Greg and his face was starting to turn its infamous tomato color. “Go look around, talk to the neighbors, check the street… you know what to do.” Henderson skirted around him and went towards the door. “I’ll be in my office if you do happen to find anything.”

Greg gave a quiet sigh and glanced around the room. Of course the boss was leaving the footwork to Greg, couldn’t manage it himself… But that was part of the work, so he might as well get to it.

So, let’s see… victim was a brunette woman, roughly twenty-five, long skirt, bright blouse, lying on her back, eyes open, positioned as if she’d fallen, and a pool of slightly dried blood under her head and neck. No ring or other jewelry. The only reason they knew she was the one renting the flat was because the landlady recognized her and she was in all the pictures.

All in all there wasn’t much to go on, other than the locked door and windows, and that she had apparently been bludgeoned by a heavy object- one they hadn’t found yet- which had cracked her neck and head. They needed a lot more information before they could even try to solve this one.

On his way down the stairs to the street Greg called Sally over and had her walk with him. “You up for some late night house calls?” He asked, holding the door open for her.

Sally scowled as she always did when he tried to be chivalrous, but still followed him out onto the street. “All right, which do you want- neighbors or the loony’s?” She asked, a clear emphasis on her preference.

Greg laughed abruptly; obviously Sally was enjoying herself just as much as he was. And, judging from the circles under her eyes, she was just as exhausted. “I’ll take the street, I suppose; each of us to our strengths.”

He was happily surprised when Sally lightly touched his arm with her hand. She wasn’t the most affectionate of women, usually favoring taunts instead, but Sally did have her moments. “You just have to know how to talk to them, sir.” She said with a small, amused smile. “I’m sure you’ll get better.”

“Thanks, Sally,” Greg replied with his own tight smile. “Now go get a move on.” He told her, returning to being her superior again.

Sally gave him a salute, one he was sure was mostly- if not all- mocking. Then she went off into the flats, disappearing through the front doors.

Greg turned back to survey the street. Nearly the entire block was taped off, a crowd already gathering on the other side; no doubt drawn by the flashing lights, ambulance, and police activity. Almost all the officers were still up in the victim’s room, but there were a few roaming the street.

Greg glanced back and forth down the street, then decided to start on the left side.

There wasn’t much to discover, not that he’d expected anything really. A few mostly empty bins, the usual rubbish on the ground, long dark alleyways he’d rather not get caught in, and suspiciously no stragglers on the street itself.

The other side was even more of the same, except perhaps with even more filth and places along the street that looked very recently abandoned. Glancing up Greg noticed many of the curtains in the flats overhead were open, the tenants likely drawn by the lights flashing in their windows. Yet it was extremely unlikely they’d tell Sally anything.

His foot suddenly bumped into something soft that moved a little, and Greg stumbled forward onto his next step. He paused, wondering if he actually was that tired.

But then, when he turned and glanced back behind him, Greg thought he saw something move in the shadows at the end of the alley. 

He turned around completely, careful of his footing on the pavement still slightly damp from last night. Greg peered into the shadows, trying to get his tired eyes to work.

“For a policeman you’re not very observant.”

Greg was sure it was only his exhaustion that made him jump at the low voice which seemed to come from nowhere.

“But then again, I can’t really blame you.”

Greg sighed, ran a hand over his face, and then straightened again; back to work.

He took a step forward and again almost ran into what was probably the man’s leg. Greg caught himself just in time and stuck his hands in the pockets of his new thick coat.

“All right,” he replied in his best ‘friendly cop’ voice. “How’re your powers of observation then?”

A laugh sounded from the shadows, and Greg heard the sound of something shifting. “Excellent.”

Greg paused for a few seconds, waiting. Then, when nothing more was offered, he cleared his throat. “Would you care to share any with me?”

The laugh was bitter this time, with a sharp edge. “Why would you want that? No one else has.”

Greg tried to interpret that for several long seconds, turning it over in his head. But then he realized he had no idea how to even begin to understand it. So Greg just asked, gesturing to the row of flats behind him, “Did you see what happened up there?”

“You mean, did I see the woman killed in her flat on the second floor?” The voice asked sarcastically, grabbing Greg’s attention.   
“Did I happen to see two people- likely her sister and aunt given their ages and obvious relation to one another- enter the building together? Then, after shouting and the sound of a wooden object breaking in half, only one- the elder- leave, and-“

“Yes, that,” Greg snapped, interrupting the person out of pure irritation. Why were witnesses always either not helpful in the least, or entirely too helpful? And this one seemed to have an extra side of sarcasm just for good measure. “Now, what can you tell me about these women you –supposedly- saw?”

There was an annoyed scoff, followed by a scathing, “I didn’t supposedly see them, I did see them.” A brief pause later came a muttered, “but obviously you wouldn’t be interested.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recover his patience. “Yes, actually I would be interested,” he replied curtly. Then Greg extended his hand down towards the person. “Here.”

An odd pause followed before he was asked, “And what am I supposed to do with that?”

‘Use it to strangle yourself,’ Greg thought, exhaustion making him more irritable than usual. But he had heard the strange note in the others voice, so Greg said instead, “You’re supposed to take it and let me help you up.”

That caused him to be treated to another scoffing noise, and Greg was certain he heard the person attempting to stand on their own. “Here,” Greg offered, stepping forward. But instead of his hand meeting another hand, it met skin.

Cold, clammy skin.

Swearing under his breath, Greg gripped the too-thin arm and pulled the person into the scarce light.

They came stumbling, with a mutter of, “I don’t think police are supposed to swear.”

But Greg was too preoccupied taking in the person’s- a boy, really- appearance.

Pale skin covered in a clammy sheen, dark hair plastered to his skull, and light glazed eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing with the light behind Greg. And the kid, he couldn’t be older than twenty if a day, was wearing a thin shirt with torn sleeves and tight-too tight- jeans in this god-awful weather. It was either the cold, or a more illegal reason, that was making him shake so badly.

Greg silently cursed again. The kid was a junkie. His one promising, if a little too verbose, witness and the idiot was a junkie. Henderson would just love testimony that had no chance of holding up in court, and would see to it that Greg received all the blame. The junkie had probably made up everything he claimed to have seen.

Some of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, because suddenly the boy focused too-wide eyes on him. “I didn’t make it up,” he blurted defensively, sounding irritated Greg thought he’d do such a thing. “I did see them.”

Greg stared at the boy for a long time before finally deciding to take a chance. “All right, tell me this: there was no sign of another person in the flat, and we only found one body.” He crossed his arms. “What’s your solution to that?”

The boy actually had the gall to huff and look annoyed with him. “She obviously cleaned up after herself,” he replied briskly, tugging his arm away. “As for the second body…” the boy trailed off, his gaze wandering away from Greg. Greg worried the boy had drifted off when he finally spoke again, “the murderer- the aunt- was obviously familiar with the flat. She knew where to hide the body so you would only find the first one. Look in the places a resident would use regularly, rather than a guest or stranger.”

Greg, writing all this down now, waited for the boy to continue. Instead he just stood there, not meeting Greg’s eyes and looking oddly jittery. “Well, is that it then?” Greg asked, waiting.

The junkie spared him just long enough of a glance in order to glare at him. “You’re a detective, aren’t you? Well, detect!”

Greg stuffed the notebook back into his pocket and weighed his options. Either he could ignore everything the boy had said as a fabrication and let him off, or he could check if the victim actually had an aunt or sister, or he could cuff the boy now and take him in for more questions.

He knew exactly which option looked the best at this point.

“Don’t suppose you have any idea for motive,” Greg said tiredly, hoping the note in his voice would strike the right chord to get him a good answer.

Greg could tell he had been successful when the junkie rolled his eyes and started talking. “Just before the victim was killed, a very loud argument broke out between the three relatives. So it’s likely at the time they were discussing a matter they all disagreed on, one that was very important to each of them.” The boy clasped his hands together. “The highest likelihood is a familial matter, possibly inheritance although blackmail is also a possibility.”

Greg was about to ask another question when the radio at his side crackled to life, with Henderson’s voice calling his name.

“Wait right there,” he instructed the kid- who was starting to shake more violently now. Needs another fix, Greg noted sadly as he unhooked the radio and raised it to his mouth. “Lestrade here,” Greg said into it.

“Finally,” Henderson commented irritably, and Greg could almost see him patting his brow with the initialed handkerchief. “Where are you?”

“Outside on the street canvassing, sir,” Greg told the older man. He added, “Just like you-“

“There’s no time for that!” Henderson interrupted, nearly shouting in Greg’s ear. Why had he chosen the short end of Henderson’s temper today? “A second body’s been found in the chimney of the flat, seems to be the victims cousin.” 

There was no grief in the man’s tone, only impatience as a once open-and-shut case (soon as they found the murderer) became more complicated. “I want you to get all the information and evidence then come to my office. Who knows how long it will take for forensics to do their work.”

Greg glanced over at the junkie, who was trying very hard not to look triumphant yet failing spectacularly. “I’ll get right on that, sir,” he promised obligingly. When there was only silence from the other end, Greg turned the radio down and put it back.

He then looked at the boy again. “All right,” Greg said grudgingly, and maybe a little awed. “How’d you know about the second body?”

The junkie just smiled thinly at him, his eyes glittering in a very discomforting way. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked in a low drawl.

Greg eyed the boy warily, noticing he was trembling uncontrollably. He also looked more than halfway to coming down with a cold. “No, it’s not.”

Greg reached out and grabbed the boys’ -very bony- wrist. “All right, fine. At least let me drive you home.”

The boy tried to pull away from Greg’s grip, and finally succeeded on his third attempt. “I don’t need you to drive me anywhere,” the boy told him scornfully. “And I definitely don’t need help from a copper.”

Greg glanced back towards the flats, noting that Sally was standing by the front door waiting. “Well, I’m not going to leave you just wandering the streets,” he told the boy sternly. “So what are we going to do?”

The boy quickly slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans, only emphasizing how thin he was. “You’re going to let me walk, and you will return to your crime scene.” A light gaze quickly flicked over him; “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

He did need to get upstairs to deal with the second body, and the boy didn’t seem very dangerous. Greg greatly suspected everything the boy said would check out, in some way, and he did have the notes he’d been taking. There really was no need to have the boy stay, even if it likely meant he’d just go off to find his next fix.

Worried for the younger generation, Greg pinched his nose. This boy was a rude bastard, but he was also observant. “I’ll let you go then. Just stay away from any crime scenes in the future, all right?” Greg advised, knowing many officers weren’t as lenient.

The boy just smiled in a very irritating way, and turned on his heel. He had taken a few steps down the alley when the question, “I don’t suppose it’d do any good to tell you to take care of yourself,” escaped his mouth.

In response the boy seemed to freeze, turning into a trembling statue. For a few seconds Greg watched warily until the boy finally seemed to jolt back to life. The boy turned his head just a little, not quite looking at him, and said quietly, “It hasn’t done any good yet.”

And then, before Greg could reply- even though he had no idea how - the boy resumed his journey down the alley.

~~~ * ~~~

Lestrade hadn’t really expected to see the boy again; but wasn’t surprised when everything the boy told him about the victim checked out, and it turned out the aunt had murdered her nieces. Once this all revealed itself, Lestrade and his fellow officers were able to quickly close the case.

Then there was a break-in and robbery which quickly turned into a murder case, and Greg almost entirely forgot about the strange, observant junkie.

He regretted forgetting when their paths crossed again several months later.

It happened at another crime scene, of course; Greg suspected the boy had been haunting crime scenes for a while, even if he hadn’t heard any complaints.

When he stepped out of the car Greg didn’t see the boy at first. But once the scene was cordoned off, the body inspected, pictures taken, and forensics underway, a familiar low, unsteady voice called to him from the alley across the way.

Greg crossed over to the alley and paused. “You seem to have a habit of lurking in alleys,” he commented, doing his best to sound amused. “Should I be worried?”

To his surprise the boy didn’t take the opportunity to mock him. Instead all Greg heard were short, rattling breaths.

And it wasn’t from trying to catch his breath after running, Greg was sure. He doubted the boy even could run.

Greg quietly cursed under his breath- it seemed to be becoming a habit around this boy- and reached out to drag him forward.

There was a weak protest of, “watch it!” But it went ignored as the light revealed the boys’ worrying condition.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Greg hissed, taking in just how pale he looked- almost like a ghost. “You should be somewhere sleeping off that junk in your body.”

The boy scoffed and tried, with very little coordination, to bat Greg’s hand away. “I’m fine,” he insisted in a hoarse voice. “I would have thought you’d appreciate the,” the kid cleared his throat several times before finishing, “the help.”

“Not from you, not like this,” Greg disagreed with a weary sigh; then he tugged on the boys’ arm again. “Not if you’re going to show up on crime scenes like this.”

Pale, barely focused eyes made an attempt to glare at him from under dripping dark curls… but didn’t quite pull it off. “I’m fine, Detective. There’s no need to use your few spare brain cells worrying over me.”

“Let me decide who I worry over,” Greg advised. Then he quickly tightened his hold as the boy looked about to fall over. “Look, come sit with me. You look ready to collapse.” Greg led him over to the nearest stoop and sat down heavily, pulling the boy with him.

The boy allowed him to do so, but then as soon as they were sitting the boy folded his legs to his chest and hid his face. Greg let him go, allowing the boy to curl around his own trembling form. At least now he didn’t have to worry about the kid collapsing; he just had to worry about him overdosing and destroying himself with drugs- just like he’d seen many young people do.

After a few minutes went by as he listened to the ragged breathing, Greg leaned over- only just stopping himself from putting an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “So tell me, what didn’t you understand about my telling you to stay away from crime scenes?”

The boy made a noise that sounded like a gruff laugh. “I didn’t think you were serious, seeing as I had just solved your case for you. It would have taken you at least twice the time if left on your own.”

Greg felt a flare of anger and snapped in reply, “Look boy, I’ve been working crime scenes for years now and I’ve done just fine. You just had a lucky break; especially since you were a witness to the actual crime.”

Next to him the boy suddenly became motionless, except for the shivers that continued to wrack his body. And, since Greg was so close, he heard the boy scoff quietly, “lucky break, indeed.”

His anger began to fade then, and Greg wondered if he’d been wrong about this boy. But then the boy opened his mouth again and said in an almost level voice, “I’m not a child, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one. If you don’t want my help then you should have said,” the boy told Greg irritably, and then attempted to stand on his own. “I have,” he swayed a little but batted away Greg’s offered hand, “better places to be.”

“Right, like getting your next fix?” Greg asked exasperatedly, rising to his feet. He put a hand on the boys’ shoulder, easily evading the hand that tried to stop him. “Is that why you’re here then? You have another perfect solution to a crime you haven’t even seen yet? I didn’t ask you to come.”

The corner of the boys’ mouth twitched upward as he said triumphantly, “I was right then.” Pale eyes briefly met his. “No need to thank me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Greg replied grumpily. But then he decided not to go further with that and instead asked, “So tell me, what happened here?”

There was such a long pause that Greg wondered if the boy was still with him. But finally the boy admitted, in a tone that made it obvious this was costing him, “I’m not certain. I need to see the crime scene and the body first.”  
Greg laughed at the pure ridiculousness of that demand. “No,” he replied firmly when he got his breath back, “absolutely not. There is no way that is happening.”

When he met the boys’ eyes, Greg was surprised to see hurt there- as if the boy had actually expected him to agree. But the pain was quickly masked by annoyance as the pale eyes went flat again. “Why not?” The boy demanded, crossing his arms.

“Why?” Greg parroted, part of his mind noting how the boy looked even thinner this time. “Well, because you’re a civilian for one. I can’t just let you on a crime scene, even if you did solve one crime which you were lucky enough to be a witness to.” He narrowed his eyes, considering. “Actually, maybe I should arrest you as a suspect. You have been loitering near the scene, who knows what else you’ve done.”

The boy did not look impressed. “I am not the one you should be looking at as a suspect. Nor am I a witness here.” His expression turned beseeching, all though Greg didn’t quite trust that it was real. “Five minutes, that’s all I need. Ten at the most. I’ll solve the crime for you, and save you a weeks’ worth of time wasted investigating. Surely you can see the benefit.”

Greg found himself actually considering the offer. The boy may be a junkie, but he had saved Greg a lot of work by how fast he’d solved the last case. Of course Greg had had to check the boy’s solution was right, but it was worth it in the end. Maybe this time the boy would prove himself just as useful. He did seem to have a talent for solving crimes. But then again, he was a civilian and quite obviously high from whatever poison he’d taken. There was no way Greg could bring the boy with him on the scene. Yet Greg knew he would likely need the help, as much as it pained him to admit it.

“I can’t take you in with me,” Greg told the boy, who had started shaking yet again. At the return of the hurt in those strange eyes he quickly went on, “but if you’re patient, I can get you the scene photos and information on the victim. You’ll have to work off of that.”

To his relief, hope flared in the eyes before it was quickly masked- as if the boy didn’t want Greg to know just how much he needed this. “All right, fine,” the boy agreed after a long pause. “I’ll wait here . Be fast.”

Greg bit back a sharp retort but said instead, “Remember, I’m doing this because I think you can actually help- not as a personal favor. You had better still be here when I come back, or I really will take you in. And stay out of the way of the other officers; they don’t need you harassing them.”

He only waited for the boy to nod before Greg turned on his heel and quickly walked back towards the building. Sally and the forensics team were likely waiting for him inside.

By the time Greg stepped into the living room on the first floor forensics had already finished snapping pictures, and Sally was going through the victims belongings. Luckily it didn’t take much to convince the photographer the photos needed to be developed right away, and that Greg needed his own copies. While he waited for the photographer to come back, Greg spoke with Sally to find out about the victim and to kick around possible reasons for the rather large dent in the victims’ skull.

The photographer returned within a half hour, and Greg excused himself to the street with the photos and his sheet of notes.

In the meantime the boy had retreated back into the darkness afforded by the alley, but he hadn’t left as Greg had feared.   
Apparently the boy did need this as much as Greg thought.

Greg stopped at the end of the alley and called, “Olly olly oxen free!”

A second later the boy stepped a little unsteadily into the light. He leaned against the wall, likely for support, and gave Greg a wary look as if not exactly sure of his sanity.

Greg ignored this and waved the folder of photographs at him. “Here, you have five minutes. And for god’s sake don’t let anyone see you with them; I’m already stretching the rules enough as it is.”

The boy made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, and snatched the folder out of Greg’s hand. He held it in one hand as he flipped the folder open and traced the photos with his finger.

Greg watched, almost entranced, as the boy methodically went through the photos. Something had changed about the boy as soon as the folder was in his hand, but Greg couldn’t tell exactly what that was.

He was left waiting as the boy went through the photos once, and then again; when the boy started on a third time Greg finally spoke up. “I have notes on the victim as well, if you can tear yourself away,” he told the boy with a little more sarcasm than he’d intended.

The boy’s head jerked up at his interruption, and he stared vacantly at Greg. It took Greg a few seconds to realize the boy had briefly forgotten him while he’d looked through the photos; he had been so focused on them.

But the boy blinked, then shivered violently; and with that he was suddenly recognizable as the irritating, strange but observant junkie who had stumbled onto his crime scenes twice now.

All he received was a nod, but Greg pulled the sheets from his pocket. As he read Greg waited for the boy to interrupt; but instead he just listened intently, which was a surprise to Greg.

That was, until he came to where the victim- a housewife- had spent nearly all the money in her accounts just in the past week, for what appeared to be no reason. But the boy seemed to suspect why, if the way his face lit up and he even bounced a little was any hint. Of course it did make him nearly fall over, but still.

Greg stared at the suddenly energetic boy. It was almost a complete opposite of the withdrawn, sharp-tongued junkie Greg was used to dealing with. But what he said was, “You’ve figured something out then.”

The boy snapped the folder closed and met Greg’s eyes, his own almost too-bright. “What about the husband, does he have an alibi?”

Greg tried to force his mind to keep up so he could answer the boy. “We tried to find him, but haven’t yet.” Greg sighed and rubbed his forehead. “It’s likely he’s already gone.”

“Hmm,” the boy hummed quietly. “What about the mistress?”

“The mistress?” Greg parroted confusedly, annoyed with himself even as he did. “There wasn’t any sign of a mistress. Right now it looks like an unhappy husband killed his wife for the money, and then took off when he realized there wasn’t any left.”

The boy shook his head in disagreement. “No, it’s never that simple.” He clasped his hands under his chin. “And there’s always a mistress.”

Greg found himself waiting again as the boy thought. He worried about that if the boy didn’t have an epiphany soon, they’d run out of time. Henderson wasn’t exactly known for his patience; all though everyone seemed to still be here at the scene.

“Ah!” The boy exclaimed, and tore the notes out of Greg’s hand in order to read them himself. He must have found what he was looking for, because suddenly a bright, triumphant grin split his face.

As the boy shook not only from the drugs but also anticipation, Greg waited for him to share. But instead the boy just remained quiet, even as he was probably solving the case.

Finally Greg had had enough and he snatched back his notes. “Something you’d like to share with the class?”

The boy blinked startled pale eyes at him. Obviously he had been forgotten again.

“The case?” Greg reminded none too gently.

“Oh, yes,” the boy said, and clapped his hands together. “This is much more delightful than I anticipated. It’s brilliant, really.”

Greg nodded as if he understood. “And what exactly is so brilliant?”

Instead of explaining the boy studied him for a long minute. His gaze was more intense than Greg would expect given what he was on, so Greg waited and tried to be patient.

Just when it was getting uncomfortable, the boy finally blinked and filled with energy again.

“Here,” the boy said quickly, and flipped the folder open. After flipping impatiently through several pictures he pulled one out and thrust it at Greg’s face.

Greg pulled back so he could actually see the photo, and then stared. “That’s the victim,” he commented dryly. “The wife.”

When Greg looked over the top of the photo, the boy was smiling slightly. He was obviously enjoying himself.

“Is it though?” The boy asked, and thrust the photo towards him again. “Look closer, use those eyes of yours.”

Greg shot him an annoyed look, patience already very thin. But he did bend slightly to look closer. On top of everything else, this boy was ridiculously tall.

Yet after looking at the picture for several long minutes trying to see what the boy was hinting at, Greg still didn’t understand. He straightened and shook his head, feeling a pang of defeat. “It’s a picture of the victim, the wife, just like we found her.”

Greg heard the boy mutter something that sounded distinctly insulting, but chose to ignore it.

“Wrong,” the boy chimed, sounding only a little snide. “Look again. Where is her wedding ring? Look at her makeup, anyone her age would know how to put it on better. And her hair, that is obviously not a professional job. Someone was in a hurry and didn’t care if it looked perfect. It just needed to trick you lot long enough for them to get away.”

Greg silently wondered what the hell makeup and a haircut had to do with anything when a woman was lying in her own living room, dead.

“So the husband took her wedding ring, likely to give to this supposed mistress of yours,” Greg considered out loud, inwardly wincing when the boys’ eyes flashed. “And then ran off before we found the body, and without the money he wanted.” That made as much sense as anything. In his drug addled haze the boy was likely just focusing on irrelevant details.

The boy frowned at him, as if he’d read Greg’s mind; and, somehow, he also seemed to retreat slightly.

When the boy finally spoke again his voice was sharp with bitterness. “I’m not imagining things because of the drugs. You’re the one missing everything important.”

Well, there was obviously history there. Greg decided to humor the boy to find out where his thoughts were headed. “All right, what am I missing then?” Greg asked in good humor.

The boys’ expression barely changed. “The dead woman didn’t put on her own make up, or have her hair done. Someone else did both to make it look like her, but it was a rush job and done out of necessity.”

“’Look like her’?” Greg echoed, not following the boys’ quick thoughts. “How was she-?”

“That isn’t the wife,” the boy declared, a touch of drama weaving itself into his voice. “The woman in the picture, and your victim, is the mistress. The husband and wife used her in order to escape with their fortune to another country where they can live happily after ever.”

Greg’s mind stalled for several seconds, leaving him to stare openly at the boy.

“Hold on,” he finally managed, trying to understand. “Our victim is the husbands mistress, who the husband and wife murdered together and made-up to look like the wife, just so they could run off with the money?” Even after his many years with the yard, he still found it difficult to believe some things people did for money.

“Yes, obviously,” the boy drawled, but he was watching Greg closely.

Greg frowned, still thinking this over. “Seems a bit elaborate; even for that much money.”

There was an odd note in the boys’ voice as he intoned, “People will do anything for money.”

“I suppose,” Greg agreed with a little reluctance. “So what about the mistress then? Why string her along just to kill her in the end?”

“They needed someone who could trick you lot,” the boy explained. “Note just how closely the woman resembles the wife, even before the haircut and without the poor make up job.” His eyes flickered away and off to the side. “They had this planned carefully in advance.”

“Right,” Greg replied, taking a pen from his pocket and flipped to a new page in his notebook. He began writing all this down; surprisingly the boy actually waited, despite a little trembling, and remained silent.

Once Greg finished he looked up to see the boy still looking off somewhere. “So,” he began with a slight forced cheerfulness, “any idea where they may have gone?”

The cool gaze wandered back towards him, the pale face tight with annoyance. “You’re supposed to be the police; I imagine you can at least handle that investigation.” A single dark brow rose haughtily. “Am I correct in assuming you are capable of even such a simple task?”

Greg’s hand tightened around the notebook until he was nearly crushing it. “Are you always this arrogant, or have I done something specific to deserve it?”

Instead of the sharp retort Greg expected, the boy stiffened; and yet again something darkened the light eyes.

Another sore point, Greg noted guiltily. He watched as this brilliant boy, even despite the drugs, threatened to shut away because of his stupid mindless remark. So, in an attempt to cheer the boy, Greg asked another question.

“Are you always so brilliant? Even clean and sober?”

He had phrased it as a challenge, but was also truly curious. His reward was a flash of anger. “Of course,” the boy replied petulantly, somehow managing to look down his nose at Greg. “I’ve already solved two of your cases fairly easily. I doubt continuing to do so would prove to be very difficult.”

“Technically you helped on those cases,” Greg pointed out, remembering the ridiculous amount of paperwork involved. “You didn’t solve them.” But he could hear the not very veiled insult in the boy’s voice.

As much as it was hard to admit, the boy had been useful with the two cases he’d ‘helped’ on. While Greg knew he would have come to the same conclusion eventually, they’d been able to close the cases much more quickly with the boys’ observations.

From what Greg had seen, the boy could prove to be incredibly useful. Not as a fellow officer, Greg didn’t have that kind of power (and he didn’t think the boy would be any good as an officer), but maybe as a consultant…

Of course, the boy’s drug habit was a rather persistent problem.

“What’s your name?” Greg asked, maybe a little eager than necessary.

The boy gave him a long look until he finally asked, with a touch of caution that surprised Greg, “Why does it matter?”

Greg sighed at the obvious deflection. “You’re the genius; I’m sure you can answer such a simple question.”

He was glad to see the side of the boys mouth twitch upward just a little. But there was still a very long pause, one so long that Greg glanced over at the house.

Greg hadn’t really been expecting an answer, so it he was startled when the boy finally said quietly, “Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg was very tempted to reply, ‘Bond, James Bond,’ just from the way the boy had said his name. But instead he bit his tongue and thought, ‘well, with that name no wonder he’s a bit odd.’

“All right, Sherlock,” Greg began amiably. He crossed his arms and leaned back a little to appear more amiable. “I have an offer you might be interested in.”

The boy- Sherlock- didn’t look fazed at all. His expression remained completely neutral. “Oh, really.”

Well, that wasn’t very reassuring. “Yes, I do,” Greg replied lightly. “Since you’ve been so helpful on these two cases, how would you feel about helping the Yard on a few more?” He added, with a touch of humor, “In an actual, official capacity.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a way Greg wasn’t really comfortable with. Was it amusement, irritation? “You want to hire me, correct? Not as an officer, you don’t have that much confidence in my abilities. What then…?” He trailed off, eyes narrowing even if the icy gaze didn’t weaken. “A common, petty, consultant?” The boy, Sherlock, actually laughed. “Neither of us are that desperate, Inspector. I don’t need the pity that comes with your silly offer.”

Sherlock actually turned on his heel and started walking away. With his hands pushed down into his pockets the boy called over his shoulder, “goodbye, Detective.”

Greg was left watching a junkie with a brilliant mind walk away from him, and away from the only job offer he may ever get.

Well, that was that then. He’d obviously never see Sherlock Holmes again… Which may or may not be a good thing.

~~~ * ~~~  
Sherlock walked quickly down the pavement and away from the foolish Detective with far too much pity in his eyes.

He didn’t need an overeager Detective offering him a useless job he couldn’t possibly want less. Why would he want to tie himself to an incompetent Yard when there were so many other interesting things to investigate?

No one seemed to have understood that yet; no matter how many times he insisted or explained.

While being at crime scenes and solving the two crimes for the Detective had been exhilarating, he didn’t actually need it. There were many other pursuits more worth his time. 

A sudden strong cold breeze went directly through him, and not for the first time he wished he had a coat- if only for the practicality. London winters were ridiculously frigid, especially when he was so often outdoors.

Once he was several blocks away from the crime scene and the Detective, Sherlock realized a black car was following him- and had been doing so for at least a block and likely longer.

He pretended he hadn’t noticed and continued walking, but did quicken his pace slightly. There wasn’t anyone who immediately came to mind that would come after him- he’d been careful about that. But it was still best to be sure.

The person driving the car didn’t seem to be phased in the least; they easily still kept pace with him, following him to the next street.

It was extremely irritating. But Sherlock decided the best method was to ignore them until they- hopefully- went away.

~~~ * ~~~  
After his brother made him drive for four streets without giving any sign of having noticed the car, Mycroft found his patience wearing thin.

Once they had stopped at yet another light, Mycroft was finished.

He raised his hand, silently insulting his brother’s single-minded stubbornness, and manipulated the control for the windows.

A quiet electronic hum accompanied the window as it rolled down, exposing him to the sounds and smells of the street. Mycroft focused on his brother, calling out in a strained voice, “Really, Sherlock; this is becoming tiresome. Come and get in the car, I want to speak with you.”

Surprisingly, Sherlock actually stopped at the sound of his voice; because of this Mycroft had to stop the car more quickly than he’d expected.

He waited, leaving the car idling. His brother didn’t turn to face him, or even reply; Sherlock just remained silent and unmoving.

It had been a long time since Mycroft had seen Sherlock so motionless and withdrawn. He found himself only worrying even more about his brother than being reassured by the evidence Sherlock was still alive. After a long pause Mycroft attempted yet again, “Sherlock-“

“Don’t,” came the clipped command. Mycroft was thrown back many, many years ago when he and Sherlock had also been at odds. The voice Sherlock had used then was exactly the same as now. “You have no right.”

Obviously it would be no use reminding Sherlock just what their relation was. So, therefore, another method was needed.

“It has been years since we last saw each other, Sherlock,” Mycroft called to his brother. “The least you could do is say hello.”

A scornful laugh escaped his brother’s throat. “Is that what would be proper?” Sherlock asked coldly, his back stiffening.

“It would be nice,” Mycroft replied, trying not to push too hard. He would also personally like it, but that was not the way to convince his brother.

Sherlock gave one of the long, overdramatic sighs he had perfected as a child. Then, after a just as long pause with only the sounds of the streets of London around them for noise, his stubborn younger brother finally turned to face him.

As he took in each detail of just how far his brother had fallen, Mycroft tried not to let his sorrow and regret show in his   
expression. It was the one reaction he knew Sherlock would respond negatively to. So Mycroft opened the car door, and stepped outside.

Then he cleared his throat and said in a quiet greeting, “Hello, Sherlock.”

From the way his brother’s not completely focused eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed, Mycroft had taken too long to respond.

But instead of greeting him in return, which was likely hoping too much, Sherlock’s gaze – not as sharp as it had once been- swept over him.

“Your new position must agree with you,” Sherlock sniped bitterly. “You’ve gotten fat.”

It was a comment designed to hurt, and likely drive him away. But Mycroft had half-expected this so he let it slide off; he was just thankful Sherlock was actually speaking to him.

“It is quite enjoyable, yes,” Mycroft replied amiably, as if Sherlock was a business acquaintance and not blood. Then he took a risk and commented in turn, “I see you haven’t been taking care of yourself, as usual.”

When Sherlock’s eyes dimmed faintly and he became more of an untouchable statue, Mycroft knew he had made the wrong decision. His comment had effectively put Sherlock on the defensive. 

“Despite what you or that idiot copper may think, I can look after myself,” his brother replied, voice layered with frost. “I am no longer a child.”

From the brother Mycroft remembered it was a very obvious warning to leave him alone and let Sherlock be. But since his brother was an adult now, that only made Mycroft expect more from him; expectations that did not include Sherlock poisoning his body with whatever illegal substances he had discovered access to. Mycroft expected much more from his (brilliant) younger brother.

“You can claim so all you want, Sherlock; but your appearance tells me decidedly otherwise,” Mycroft informed his brother sternly, fixing him with a firm look. “I would ask just what you have been doing, but I’m not certain I wish to know.”

Sherlock laughed; “there’s also no point in asking since you already know everything.”

Mycroft gave his brother the best version of his enigmatic smile. If Sherlock wanted to believe he was omniscient, he was perfectly comfortable with that. If anything, it was a reminder of their childhood when his brother used to look up to him.

His reaction seemed to only irritate Sherlock further. “All right,” he said, eying Mycroft carefully. “Why are you here then? Why decide to care now?”

Mycroft coughed, leaning against the side of the car. “I never stopped, Sherlock; especially worrying.” He swept his gaze over his brother. “I know you well enough to know exactly what you are capable of getting into.” Mycroft then took a deep breath and steeled himself for Sherlock’s reaction to his next suggestion. “That is why I would strongly urge you to accept the detective’s offer. He is being extremely generous, and it is quite the opportunity for you- especially given your skills.”

Sherlock seemed to have returned to ignoring him as soon as Mycroft mentioned the detective his brother had been dealing with. He barely waited for Mycroft to finish before demanding, “And you think you can control my life so easily? I refuse to let you make my decisions for me.”

As usual, Sherlock had misinterpreted his words. “That wasn’t what I-“

“And as for the Detective,” Sherlock drawled scornfully, interrupting him. “The only reason he even made an offer like that is because he pitied me and didn’t feel comfortable throwing me back on the street.” He raised his head in what was likely supposed to be defiance, but it only helped Mycroft see just how thin he was. “Besides, with my skills I have many more opportunities than just working with the police.” Sherlock scoffed; “Much more interesting ones.”

Mycroft found himself smiling thinly as he replied sarcastically, “Of course, what could be more interesting than catching criminals?”

Sherlock treated him to a look that had originated with his discovery of sarcasm. “Many things. Now, if have no more wisdom to impart,” Sherlock flung back, “I have better places to be.”

His brother had gotten several steps down the pavement when Mycroft called, “You mean destroying your body even more in that slum you call home now?”

Sherlock paused midstride. “Even if I was,” he replied coolly, barely turning his head. “It is absolutely none of your concern.”

Mycroft carefully schooled his expression so Sherlock wouldn’t know just how deeply that had hurt. He may have abandoned his brother the last few years, an action he deeply regretted, but now that Sherlock was recklessly endangering his life Mycroft refused to look away.

“I won’t go away, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned his brother coolly. But Sherlock had already resumed walking and was already a good yard or so away, pretending not to hear.

Mycroft sighed and slipped his hand into the pocket where he kept his phone. As he watched Sherlock’s retreating back Mycroft fiddled with the phone, frowning every time he saw Sherlock shudder with the cold.

Of course his idiotic brother insisted on wearing no form of outer clothing during one of London’s coldest winters. He would have given Sherlock a coat as a gift, but he knew what had happened to his last such gift. And it was doubtful Sherlock would accept any kind of gift from him; not now.

However, if it came from him indirectly… and as a reward, or an incentive…

Mind now made up, Mycroft pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed a number he had entered only hours earlier.

~~~ * ~~~

Greg had only just finished having a rather tense conversation with his commanding officer when his mobile rang again.

He had very little patience just then, causing him to bark into the phone, “Lestrade.”

A smooth voice said pleasantly, “Am I correct in assuming this is Detective Lestrade?”

It had been a long enough day that his articulate response was, “Sorry?”

“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” the voice replied quickly, and Greg suspected he heard some amusement. “In that case, I would like to speak privately with you… regarding a mutual acquaintance.”

Greg swept his gaze over the crime scene around him, but there wasn’t anything unusual. Instead of being reassured, he found himself a bit unnerved. “Just who is this acquaintance?”

The voice chuckled lightly in his ear. “There’s no need to act so ignorant, Inspector. I am certain you know exactly who I mean.”

There was a long pause while Greg waited for the mysterious voice to explain. His first conclusion was that this was a relative of someone he’d put away- which really didn’t make him want to go somewhere alone with them; especially since they had somehow gotten his private number.

When the voice finally spoke again, it was with the instruction, “There will be a black car pulling up at your scene, Detective. Please get inside.”

“What?” Greg asked, confused. “You expect me to just let you kidnap me off my crime scene, in front of half a dozen officers?”

“I did say please,” the voice replied, sounding entertained. Then there was a click and the dial tone beeped in his ear.

Greg muttered something unkind under his breath and ended the call. He pretended nothing had happened and flicked through his notes to look busy so the other officers wouldn’t come over.

Then, out of the corner of his eye he saw a sleek, inconspicuous black car stop just beyond the barrier of police cars.

Well, there went that hope.

Greg didn’t really want to get in the car; there wasn’t really any reason to. But the man on the other end of the line had been intimidating, and Greg was also honestly curious.

At the moment curiosity won out. He just had to hope his decision wouldn’t end in his kidnapping or something even worse.

He started towards the car, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. The other officers at the scene had everything well in hand, and they were nearly done here. Greg would have preferred to wait until they were done, but the man hadn’t left him any choice.

The black car continued to wait just beyond the police cars; with no sign of movement from inside, and no sign that whoever was inside had seen him coming over. Greg wondered if he had gotten the wrong car- maybe there was a multitude of black cars in this part of the city today.

He was quickly proven wrong when the back door of the car opened, yet no one got out.

Greg waited, wondering just what was going on.

Then the voice from the phone called from within the car. “Please come inside, Lestrade. We have quite a lot to speak about.”

Obviously whoever this man was, he had seen too many crime shows where people were kidnapped off the street. This was either going to go well, or more likely, horribly.

Greg took several more steps towards the car. “This better not take long, I still have a case to solve.”

“The more you dawdle, the longer it will take Detective,” the smooth voice told him lightly. But Greg could hear the hint of impatience. “Get in.”

Against common sense, Greg climbed into the car.

He found himself sliding onto a leather seat inside a rather expensive car. On the seat opposite sat a man Greg suspected had spoken to him on the phone. Greg glanced around, trying to do anything but look at the other man. But it was almost completely dark inside, the windows were darkened, and there was nothing else to look at.

So in the end Greg was forced to look back at the mysterious man.

“All right, what can I do for you?” Greg asked, settling on the edge of the seat and carefully not letting himself become comfortable. “What do you want to talk about?”

The man gave him a smile that was really not at all a smile. His pale hand twisted on the handle of the umbrella he was holding- even though they were inside a car. “As I said before, there is a certain person we have in common whom I wish to discuss with you.”

“Right,” Greg acknowledged, feeling like he was facing his DCI and very off-guard because of it. “But you never said exactly who that person was.” He wasn’t trying to be uncooperative, not really. But Greg didn’t take kindly to people who intimidated him, then told him to get into strange black cars.

His captors’ mouth twisted wryly. “I understand you spend many of your days with those intellectually challenged, Detective. But that does not mean you cannot show your own intellect.” The amber brows drew together. “To that end, I believe you know exactly of whom I speak.”

No one really talks that way anymore, Greg’s mind protested. They can’t. But now that he considered it, there was a very short list of people this mysterious man could mean. And one specific person was at the top of that list.

What confused him was just how this man knew him. As far as Greg could tell, the boy didn’t seem to have many friends.

“You wouldn’t happen to mean a certain young man who keeps showing up on my crime scenes and then solving them for me?” Greg asked cautiously, watching the man. “And who is almost always high on some substance?”

The man’s hand on the umbrella tightened so much his knuckles turned white. “Yes, that is the young man I wish to speak with you about. I understand it is inconvenient and messy when he, as you say, shows up on your crime scenes. However, I do appreciate that you take the time to listen to him.” Those thin lips pressed together in a firm, distressed line. “Few do anymore. Perhaps once, but not now.”

That was a blaring hint if he’d ever heard one. “You know him then; and I’d say well, too.” Greg commented, crossing his arms.

His captor sighed, the man’s expression flickering before being buried again. “I did, once; but no longer now. Sherlock and I have not seen each other in several years, and he has made it quite clear he does not welcome my presence.”

The man shifted on the seat before leaning forward. “That is why I wanted to speak to you about him,” he explained. “You are the only one with whom he seems to willingly interact.”

Greg laughed darkly; the boy may ‘willingly interact’ with him, but he couldn’t imagine him listening to anyone. “That’s only because I let him help on cases, when he shows up. Other than that I don’t know anything about him.” He paused to eye the man before adding, “I don’t think I can help you.”

“Don’t be so modest, Detective,” the man admonished, actually sounding annoyed with him. “I have seen examples of your excellent work.” He smiled. “I expect a promotion may be in your near future. You are wasted in your current position.”

Greg bristled, wrapping his arms tighter. “I’m fine just where I am, thanks. I do my work just fine.”

“Hmm, well I advise you to think it over, Detective,” the man told him in the ‘I know better than you’ tone Greg had always hated. “You could do quite an amount of good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, thanks,” Greg repeated again, his nerves set on edge. He was grateful the man thought so highly of him, but he would get there on his own, thanks. “If that’s everything, I should get back to the scene.”

“We are not finished yet,” the man proclaimed coolly, tilting his head slightly. “Since you are acquainted with Sherlock, as I’ve mentioned there is something I wish you to do for me.”

Oh, so that was what this was about?

Greg narrowed his eyes and replied, using a firm tone so the man knew he was completely serious. “I’m not spying on him, no matter how much you offer. He may be annoying and a smartarse, not to mention a junkie, but he did help us close those cases.”

The other man seemed to only be intrigued by his answer. “I made no such implication, Detective. However, I am glad to hear you would not accept such an offer if one was made to you. No, there is something else I wish you to do.” 

What else could this man possibly want from him? Sadly enough, bribing police officers wasn’t all that uncommon; and the man had kidnapped him in a car just as criminals did.

“All right, what is it then?” Greg asked, glancing out the window- only to see nothing he recognized. “It had better not be anything illegal.”

“No, no. Of course not,” the man replied, sounding like he was personally offended by the idea. “Nothing of the kind, Detective. I would merely like you to look after Sherlock for me, since you are in such an ideal position to do so.”

Greg laughed at that. For all this man’s influence, he really was badly misinformed. “No, I’m not in any position like that,” Greg corrected. He tapped his fingers once, twice. “I’ve met him twice and both were at crime scenes. I don’t anything about him, except he’s some kind of genius who has been high every time I’ve seen him.”

He shifted restlessly on the seat, carefully not meeting the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry to see he’s wasting that mind of his on drugs, but there’s nothing I can do.” Greg twisted his mouth. “Even if I did want to.”

A very unnerving gleam entered the man’s eyes. “Ah, but there is a way you can help him, Inspector,” his captor informed him with an odd little smile. “You see, I- like you- do not wish to see Sherlock waste away on the horrible substances he insists on using when there is so much he could be doing. That is why I believe Sherlock may be persuaded, with incentive, to go through withdrawal and become clean.”

Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. If Sherlock could be convinced to get clean and stay off drugs, there was probably a lot the boy could do. “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me. What incentive I could offer would Sherlock actually agree to?”

From the other man’s expression Greg was sure he was being laughed at. “No need to be so modest, Detective. You have access to perhaps the only thing Sherlock wants, to what could be used to convince him.”

“And that would be…” Greg said slowly, trying to coax an answer out of the other man. But before Greg let him have time to answer, he found his own. “Wait, you wouldn’t mean what I have access to as a police officer, do you? For example… cases?”

The man smiled at him again, all though this one was more pleased than the others. “Excellent Detective. That was in fact exactly what I was suggesting.”

Greg wondered if he had somehow entered an alternate universe the moment he’d climbed into this car. “So you want me to offer Sherlock cases, as a way to force him to get clean?” He spelled out just to make sure he was right. “And you think that’ll work?”

The smile slowly dimmed, until it was more of a frown than anything else. “Yes, I am certain this will succeed, Detective. Sherlock needs something to hold his interest and stop him from being bored. I believe helping you on cases will give him exactly that.”

Greg looked down at his hands, and then back up at the other man. “You’re saying he’s taking drugs because he’s bored?” Greg asked skeptically. “And solving cases is different?”

“Sherlock unfortunately suffers from the need to be constantly engaged and interested in something. This was true even when he was a child; however, now he is trying to achieve this with the drugs he favors.” The man gave another thin, disapproving smile. “Many years ago he showed an interest in solving crimes; so it is my hope that if you offer him the opportunity to help you, Sherlock will no longer need to depend on drugs to alleviate his boredom.”

Several things the man had said in the last few minutes suddenly clicked together to make sense. “You’re related to him, aren’t you?” Greg very nearly blurted. “His… brother?”

That disturbingly bright smile made a brief appearance again. The man- Sherlock’s brother- told him with almost a note of praise, “Well done, Detective. I was wondering when you’d realize. Obviously you have earned every part of your title.”

“Except,” Greg said impatiently, “you haven’t told me if I was right, or not.”

Sherlock’s supposed brother gave him an amused smile. “You are correct, Detective. I am Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft.”

Sherlock and Mycroft, what had their parents been thinking? “You really are worried about him then, aren’t you? Sherlock, I mean.”

The smile changed yet again. “Of course. Sherlock may pretend I do not exist, but I am always very aware of what he is doing.”

And they were back to speaking in riddles again. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that. Yet you’re coming to me about helping your brother kick his drug habit.” He paused before asking, a little rudely, “Shouldn’t that be your job?”

Mycroft sighed loudly, rubbing his hand over the one still gripping the umbrella handle. “As I have said, Sherlock and I no longer get along. He would not appreciate my intervention.” The man eyed him in a way Greg didn’t like. “However, if you were to intervene, I am sure he would be much more receptive; especially if you were to explain his incentive.”

“And what’s my incentive to agree to all this?” Greg asked out of curiosity. “Other than saving a young genius from whatever might happen to him while he’s on drugs?”

Another unnerving smile. “And the kindness of your own heart as well, of course. There’s no need to maintain this pretense, Detective. I’m already well aware you will agree to my suggestion.” Obviously the man thought he knew everything about Greg, which was something he‘d rather not think about. This man was more terrifying than his DCI.

Trying not to let anything show on his face, Greg sat back in his seat- pretending like he wasn’t eager to get away. “What makes you so sure I’ll agree? I might not.”

“Unlike many of your fellow officers, you care deeply for your job, and the ability it gives you to put criminals away,” Sherlock’s brother told him in a voice like he was talking about the weather. But it was the piercing stare that made Greg feel so exposed. “Some event in your early life, an encounter with crime most likely, made you want to become a police officer. You enjoy making London safer, but regret the horrendous crimes people commit.” He smirked a little, as if he knew something about this that Greg didn’t. “And you will do everything you can to succeed at your job.”

Ah, that’s what this strange man had been hinting at. “Including using Sherlock to close more cases you mean. What, you don’t think I can close enough on my own?”

His captor shook his head once, and then appeared to relax. “You do have an impressive closing rate, Detective. But I believe you could do even more with my brother’s help. Together you would be able to solve more cases, and also give him a purpose other than destroying himself.”

“I get it, that’s what you want,” Greg replied angrily. All right, so Sherlock would be a great help- especially if he could solve more cases like the others- and the boy did need to do more than just get high.

But his superiors would never let him bring on a drug addict, no matter how brilliant. It just wasn’t done.

He did really like the boy, though; for all his attitude and stubbornness.

He must have given something away, at least that the other man saw, because Sherlock’s brother had an odd gleam in his eye again. “No need to worry about your superiors, Detective. I’m certain they can be properly convinced to accept Sherlock as a consultant.”

“That’s… very reassuring,” Greg said in a tone that plainly said it really wasn’t. “But, even if they do agree, I still can’t hire a drug addict. It won’t happen.”

The man gave a long-suffering sigh, tilting his head down- the better to stare at Greg. “That is why Sherlock will get clean first, and then you will bring him in to help you on cases. As you say, hiring an ex drug addict is better than hiring an addict.”

That would be helpful; if Sherlock did successfully get clean then he could officially help with cases. It would be good to have something in his pocket, just in case.

“How do you plan on getting him clean? I doubt Sherlock will agree just because you tell him to.” Greg questioned, wondering just what power Sherlock’s older brother thought he held over Sherlock. But Greg had only seen Sherlock twice in the past month, while this man had known Sherlock his entire life. Maybe he did know something.

The man fiddled briefly with the handle of his umbrella. “It is my belief that if you are the one to push him, Detective, and offer the incentive, Sherlock will accept.” He gave a long sigh. “Hopefully he will see the opportunity to help you on cases as a better choice than his current living. He always has been rather unpredictable.”

So it was up to him then; wonderful. Because he had so much experience dealing with drug-addicted wayward genius’ who could apparently solve any crime in minutes. “And the actual plan for getting him clean?”

Sherlock’s brother cleared his throat. “I have already made arrangements at a rather inclusive clinic in a secluded area outside of London. The staff is expecting him and is ready to begin his treatment.” His lips thinned as he pressed them together. “If everything goes well and Sherlock cooperates, the process should not take long.”

“I’m sure Sherlock will appreciate all of that,” Greg commented with a brief laugh.

His kidnapper’s mouth twitched upward. “Yes, I suppose not.” After a brief lapse the man schooled his expression again. “Should I take this to mean you will help then, Detective?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? Greg sighed loudly and pinched the bridge of his nose. It might be too kind of him, but he did want to help Sherlock; to see if the boys’ claim that he really was as brilliant when clean was true. Greg hoped it was. And if Sherlock didn’t pull through, and they were wrong… well then Greg would be deeply disappointed, but he would move on.  
What did he have to lose?

“Alright,” Greg finally agreed, feeling an odd weight to his words. “I’ll offer this plan of yours to Sherlock the next time I find him stumbling onto my scene. But… I can’t promise anything.”

The man looked secretive, and smiled as if he’d already won. “Excellent. I wouldn’t expect anything less Detective.”

Before Greg could respond, Sherlock’s brother pretended to look at his watch. “I believe I’ve kept you long enough, Detective. I know you are eager to return to your scene.”

Greg blinked, startled by the sudden change of topic. “So I’m free to go then?”

“Yes, Detective. You can go.” He watched as Greg opened the door and began to climb out. “But I will be in touch.”

Greg had paused for a moment as the man spoke, but now leapt back into motion. “Of course you will,” he muttered, standing up just outside. He had been quiet, but Greg was fairly sure the other man heard.

“Good day, Detective,” Sherlock’s mysterious brother told him. Then the door was closed behind him, leaving Greg to quickly get out of the way for fear of getting his jacket caught as the car drove off down the street.

He must have been staring after it for a long time, because it took him a while to realize someone was calling his name.

Greg turned around to find Sally standing a few steps away, looking worried as she often did.

“You all right?” She asked, glancing down the street to where the car had disappeared.

He shook himself mentally and forced a smile. “Yeah, fine,” Greg reassured her before he started walking back towards the scene.  
Sally followed him without a word, but her gaze still bored into his back.

As he ducked under the tape and then held it for her, Greg told himself he would focus on the case for now and not worry about Sherlock until the next time he saw the boy. 

He didn’t want to consider how successful he may or may not be at convincing him.

~~~ * ~~~

The next time Greg saw Sherlock Holmes was, surprisingly, not at a crime scene.

He had returned to his flat at a ridiculously late hour, only to have to get up in a few hours again, to find someone sprawled directly in front of his door.

At first Greg thought it was one of his neighbors who hadn’t quite made it up to their own place. He hurried up the last stair and started towards the limp figure, his exhausted mind bristling with irritation.

“Hey! You can’t just sleep-“

But then as he got closer Greg saw the dark mop of curls and the skinny figure. “Sherlock?” He asked stunned, and rushed forward.

At the sound of his voice the person- who was almost definitely Sherlock- turned their head a little so it wasn’t all pressed against the filthy floor.

Greg got a glimpse of one grey-colored eye before the head turned away from him again.

Greg sighed tiredly and went down to his knees. Really, all he’d wanted was a few hours in front of the television and some sleep. Yet it seemed the universe was working against him, seeing as it had sent him an infuriating genius to deal with tonight.

“What have you done to yourself now, you idiot?” He asked, leaning over the boy’s too-still body. Greg reached out a hand and slid it under the boy’s curls to test his forehead.

And, just as he’d expected, it was sweaty and clammy with a fever the boy definitely had. Greg shifted his hand down to the side of the boy’s neck to thankfully feel a thready, fast pulse.

Thank god.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, I’m going to help you sit up on the count of three, alright?” Greg instructed patiently. He slid a hand under the boy’s body, being careful not to jostle him too much.

It was worrying how Sherlock didn’t even react to his touch. Greg shifted so he was sitting more or less right beside the boy. “Sherlock?” Greg called again, wondering just how conscious Sherlock was.

“Mm,” Sherlock groaned softly, managing to sound irritated in just one syllable. But it was a good sign.

“Right, on three then,” Greg announced authoritatively.

Sherlock groaned yet again, as if to argue.

“One.”

He leaned over Sherlock so he wouldn’t have to move the boy very far.

“Two.”

Greg used his other hand to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head and his neck so the genius wouldn’t do anything idiotic like choking. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn’t appreciate any of this.

“And, three.”

As gently and careful as possible, Greg shifted Sherlock up into a sitting position. Then, after a second or so, he moved Sherlock backwards to lean against him. “All right?” Greg asked quietly; he didn’t want to have made the boy’s condition even worse.

“’M fine,” Sherlock slurred, keeping his head down under Greg’s light pressure on his neck. “Don’t need-“ He suddenly stopped and attempted to push away from Greg while remaining upright under his own strength.

Greg quickly put a stop to this by pulling Sherlock back against him.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Greg chided more warmly then sharp. “I’m trying to help, Sherlock. You’re the one who came to me.” He paused. “Even if it was by collapsing on my doorstep.”

It didn’t escape his notice that while Sherlock had let him move him, the boy was unnaturally rigid in his arms- even despite how horrible he must be feeling.

“Now, what the hell did you do to yourself Sherlock?” Greg demanded in a stern voice used by paternal figures everywhere. “Even the first time I met you, you weren’t so poorly off.”

“’M fine,” Sherlock repeated a little more firmly this time. His words were thankfully also a little less slurred.

Sherlock tried to get away from him again, struggling forward. Greg didn’t try to stop Sherlock, but he did keep his arm wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist. Sherlock was weak from whatever he’d put into his system, meaning he likely would have collapsed if Greg hadn’t been holding him up.

As it was, the position the two of them were in now- with Sherlock on his hands and knees, and Greg kneeling behind him with one arm around the thin waist- wouldn’t look good if anyone happened to go by.

“Sherlock, I need you to stay awake, all right?” Greg said, feeling the boy start to shake in his arms. He wondered how long Sherlock would be able to stay conscious. What he really needed was to get a cold cloth and a glass of water, but Greg didn’t want to leave Sherlock alone and he doubted Sherlock could make it inside.

“Leave m’ alone,” Sherlock demanded weakly, back to slurring his words. Then he gasped sharply right before a severe shudder overtook his body.

This time he did collapse, the tremors still wracking his too-thin frame. Greg quickly rolled Sherlock onto his side and shifted the long legs closer to the boy’s chest. It was probably the safest position for him to be in.

“That better?” Greg asked as he pulled off his coat and draped it over Sherlock. Greg didn’t expect much of an answer, not when Sherlock’s body was currently fighting itself.

But Sherlock being Sherlock, he still found a way to respond. He opened one eye to give Greg a one-eyed glassy glare beneath the soaked curls.

He really did look horrible. The coat at least would keep him fairly warm, but it wouldn’t be enough.

“I’ll be right back, Sherlock,” Greg told the boy, who had closed his eyes again. “Don’t you dare wander off.”

A quiet huff of laughter was his answer as Greg climbed to his feet.

He slipped his keys out of his pocket, chose the one that went to his door and slid it easily into the lock. Once inside, he only took time to flip the lights on so he wouldn’t trip over anything on his way to the kitchen. His apartment was messier than usual since he’d only just finished with a case. All though Greg would never admit it to anyone, he’d half hoped Sherlock would turn up to help with the case. Yet obviously the boy had been too busy slowly killing himself.

Shaking those rather macabre thoughts from his head, Greg took a towel and soaked it in cold water from the tap. Once that was done he opened the refrigerator and took one of the bottles he kept in the door.

Hopefully, for now these would be enough.

Greg turned on his heel and went back through his living room and to the front door.

To his relief Sherlock was still where Greg had left him, and didn’t seem to have moved at all.

“Sherlock?” He called quietly, kneeling down next to the boy. If the idiot had fallen asleep…

After only a second or so Sherlock moved his head a little and opened his eyes. The glare wasn’t completely focused, but it was good to see he was still awake.

“Good,” Greg said, relieved. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and held it out towards Sherlock. “You need to sit up a bit and drink this.”

When the boy just continued to glare at him, Greg moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “On three again,” he instructed, readying himself. “One… two… three.”

On three Greg pulled Sherlock backward and into an almost sitting position. He let most of the boy’s weight settle on his arm as Sherlock fell back against him. “Good, now drink,” Greg commanded, holding the open top of the bottle to the boy’s lips.

He could feel Sherlock bristle under his arm at this treatment; but in the end the boy did take several long sips of water. He was obviously having trouble, but Greg pretended he didn’t notice.

When it became obvious Sherlock had drunken all he could, Greg withdrew the bottle and set it down on the floor. Then he picked up the damp towel and carefully placed it on Sherlock’s forehead, tipping the boys’ head back onto his shoulder.  
Sherlock hissed sharply as cold, damp cloth met burning skin; but then a few seconds later he sighed softly, and his eyes slid closed again.

For a while the two of them sat in silence, with Greg listening closely to make sure Sherlock continued breathing.

During that time his mind wandered back to consider the agreement he’d made with Sherlock’s alarming older brother. Seeing Sherlock barely conscious and not even able to stay upright only made him more determined to convince the boy to get clean. Greg didn’t know how often Sherlock made himself like this, but it wasn’t at all good.

And, while confronting Sherlock with such a decision when he was barely functioning may not be Greg’s best idea, maybe it would be the extra evidence needed to make Sherlock to see the light and be convinced.

“You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Sherlock,” Greg scolded quietly. “I refuse to believe you’re so much of an idiot that you can’t see what these drugs are doing to you.”

He listened to Sherlock’s harsh breathing, not put off at all by the boy’s lack of response.

“You’re a genius, Sherlock; an idiotic one, but still a genius. You deserve so much more of a life than trailing from high to high, and crashing my scenes.” Somehow everything he’d ever wanted to say to Sherlock was coming out now. Well, this did seem to be the time. “You could be absolutely brilliant, could really help people, and never be bored. But instead you’re letting yourself waste away.” He shook his head, careful not to jostle the boy. “I just don’t understand, Sherlock. Why would you do that?”

A tired sigh drifted up from his shoulder. “No one does,” Sherlock whispered, and the words were clearer this time. The water and cloth seemed to be helping.

Greg tilted his head to stare down at the dark curls. “Will you at least let me try?”

Sherlock didn’t give any response, other than another raspy breath.

After a few minutes’ debate with himself Greg said sternly, “I’m going to give you an offer, Sherlock. And this time, I want you to seriously consider accepting it. I want you to think it over.”

Against him Sherlock froze and seemed to stop breathing. Greg gently shook him as a reminder, causing Sherlock to gasp and suddenly burst into action.

He tore away from Greg, practically launching himself forward. Greg’s coat slipped from his thin shoulders as Sherlock snapped irritably, “I don’t need your pity-“

Yes, obviously feeling better.

“Hold on, Sherlock,” Greg cautioned, talking over him. He reached out and tried to wrestle the boy back towards him as gently as possible. “I’m not doing this out of pity. I’m doing this because I know you have potential and I’m trying to convince you of that.” Once Sherlock was still again, Greg lightly placed his hand on one of the thin shoulders. “All I want you to do is listen; will you at least do that for me?”

Sherlock weakly shrugged off his hand, but didn’t try to move away. That was an answer in itself.

Greg closed his eyes, arranged his thoughts, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I know I never said it, but you were a great help on those two cases.” A chuckle escaped his lips. “I don’t think we would have closed them nearly as fast if you hadn’t come along.”

He paused briefly, expecting Sherlock to make a comment about all officers being idiots and that was why they hadn’t been able to solve it without him.

But instead Sherlock fidgeted, almost… in discomfort, against his arm.

Greg didn’t understand why the boy would be uncomfortable. He was praising Sherlock for being able to do something an entire group of police couldn’t. Didn’t everyone like to be praised, even once in a while?

Greg filed that puzzle away in his mind for another day. Then he went on talking, now that he seemed to have Sherlock’s attention- for the moment. “Anyway, it’s because of that I’m making this offer. You’re brilliant, when you want to be, and the Yard could really use someone like you on cases,” Greg explained earnestly; he remembered all the cases it had taken them ages to solve, or ones they hadn’t even been able to solve at all. “We need someone who can bring a fresh eye to things, and someone who doesn’t think like a copper who hasn’t slept in days or lives off caffeine.”

Obviously this wasn’t as humorous as he’d thought, because this only earned him a quiet scoff from the tense body against him.

Greg sighed quietly and tried another method he hoped would hit more of a nerve with the boy. “I’ve done this for years, Sherlock. And every time there’s a case we can’t solve, or I have to tell a family even everything we did wasn’t enough-“ he heard his voice catch and quickly stopped before it happened again.

It was only after a few deep breaths that Greg managed to continue, “I regret it. And I feel guilty, because as a police officer we’re supposed to make London safer.” He looked down at the tangle of dark curls again. “You have a great talent, Sherlock; one that would be stupid to waste. So I’m asking you to come help me solve crimes, for whatever your reason; although I do hope it’s a good one. Give that brilliant mind of yours something to do instead of just letting it rot. You could make such-“

Before he was able to finish, Sherlock had slipped his grasp again and scrambled away as if Greg was on fire. The boy wasn’t able to make it very far, barely a yard or so, before he was on his knees gasping for air in-between severe coughing fits.

Greg quickly picked up the water bottle and went to Sherlock. He gently pulled on Sherlock’s shoulders to get him to sit up straighter and held the bottle to his mouth.

But Sherlock stubbornly kept his lips closed, refusing to drink.

After this standstill went on for several minutes, Greg gestured with the bottle and scolded, “Sherlock.”

That seemed to be the last straw for Sherlock because he weakly raised his arm and pushed the bottle away. It hadn’t been a very strong push, but the bottle slipped from Greg’s hand and fell to the floor where its contents started to spill out.  
Just as Greg was opening his mouth to protest, Sherlock twisted away from him.

Sherlock remained crouched on the floor, his head down with the dark curls hiding his face. But his words were loud and almost clear. “I’m not some kind of pet to be paraded around, Detective,” Sherlock hissed at him, using the title mockingly. “I won’t perform tricks at your will, and especially not for any treats.”

There was scorn in the boys’ pronouncement, but more obvious was the pain. Obviously there was some history there where Sherlock had been treated exactly that way. Sadly enough Greg could see someone taking advantage of the boy and doing that to him.

“Sherlock, I wasn’t-“

“I may have a talent, and be a genius, Detective,” Sherlock continued, barely stopping for breath. “But I will choose what I want to do; no one else, and definitely not you. I will do whatever I want with my life, and not even someone like yourself will change my mind. No matter what ‘good’ I could do,” Sherlock finished dramatically, his words dripping with disdain.

Greg stared at the stiff, hostile back in front of him. What had messed up this kid so much he was so eager to be independent and not under anyone’s influence? Sherlock was so unique; he should be flourishing instead of being alone and hiding from the world. It was obvious to Greg that being on his own was not as good for him as Sherlock believed.

But it was important for Greg to be patient right now, because he was sure that if he pushed too hard Sherlock would disappear again.

When Greg spoke again, it was in a kind and patient voice. “I’m not trying to make you do anything, Sherlock. I won’t force you. All I want is to give you an option.”

Sherlock gave no sign of having heard, but Greg hoped (knew) he was listening.

“I hope you take it, Sherlock. But I’m leaving it up to you,” Greg explained, and then decided to just go for it. “I know you liked working on those cases- don’t deny it- and I want you to be able to keep working with me. So, I’m willing to bring you on as a consultant with my team.”

Silence reigned for what felt like a long time before Sherlock finally drew a rasping breath. Then he turned around to directly face Greg, looking like he was almost forcing himself to do so.

And when Sherlock slowly raised his head to meet Greg’s eyes, the embers of hope in those slightly focused eyes hurt.

“There has to be a catch, there always is,” Sherlock commented quietly, narrowing his gaze. “No one would let you hire an addict, however much a genius.”

Greg gave a reluctant nod. “True. That’s why there’s just one thing I need you to do first.”

The light eyes flickered rapidly across his face, leaving Greg to wonder just what the boy was seeing. Then suddenly they stopped, and widened. “You want me to get clean,” Sherlock breathed in realization. “I have to get clean before you’ll let me help,” he said, clearly disapproving.

“Yes.” Greg replied firmly, letting the boy know he was serious and there was no getting around this. “So you have to decide which you like more, Sherlock: the drugs you’re using to keep yourself entertained and that are destroying your body, or the crimes you seem to enjoy- and are good at- solving.”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, not that Greg expected him to. This wasn’t a decision to be made lightly, and Greg was glad Sherlock was taking his time. Instead Greg was subjected to another of those piercing stares, even if still a little unfocused.

At least he thought so until it felt like an hour had gone by, and Sherlock still hadn’t answered. The boy wasn’t staring at him quite as strongly anymore, but he was taking a very long time to come to a decision.

Finally Greg prodded, “Sherlock-“

The boy blinked rapidly, and looked as if he’d been pulled back from somewhere. He focused on Greg again, but now there were shutters down and Greg wasn’t able to sense anything.

“Well,” Sherlock said abruptly, as if they’d just come to the end of a conversation. “I’ll let you get to bed. It must have been tiring using that brain of yours all day.”

In the moment it took Greg to catch up with what Sherlock had said, the boy had already weakly stood up and was stumbling over to the stairs.

“Sherlock, wait-“ Greg called, climbing to his feet.

But by that time Sherlock had more or less staggered to the top of the stairs. “Goodbye, Detective!” He called before disappearing down and around the corner.

“Goodbye Sherlock Holmes,” Greg replied quietly, still staring at the empty stairway.

~~~ * ~~~  
Several months, many cases, and a text from ‘MH’ that merely said ‘thank you’ later, Greg was catching up on the mountain of paperwork he’d unwisely been avoiding.

He had just scrawled his signature on another piece of paper- he hadn’t really bothered to check what it was for after the tenth one- when he heard the noise of a commotion coming from nearby.

Greg looked up in time to witness a long black (expensive) coat topped with a mop of dark curls drop into the chair across the desk from him.

Just as he was wondering what the hell was going on, a certain pair of light eyes- completely clear this time- met his own tired ones.

Greg couldn’t help but stare before finally laughing. With a smile he opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a folder he’d been saving especially.

He paused for barely a second before handing over the file, all the while holding the light, expectant gaze.

And finally, Greg was granted with the sight of an honest, real smile from Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes finally meets John Watson... need I say any more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it folks. After months and nearly a year of working on this story, we are finally at the end.
> 
> Somehow John's chapter, the most important chapter in my mind, turned out to be the shortest. I considered adding to it and making it longer, but it feels perfect and I don't want to change anything.
> 
> Just a warning: this chapter has not been beta'd, so be aware I have no familiarity with nearly everything UK. I apologize for any Americanisms, or anything else that may not make sense. Also, the tenses might be a little funny in some places.
> 
> Any feedback would be very welcomed; or any ideas for stories from this verse you would like me to write, I would love to hear! This verse is very dear to me and I love writing in it. I don't quite want to leave it yet.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thanks for reading! And for sticking through this with me!
> 
> Thanks everyone!

Years went by and Mycroft, Greg, and Sherlock settled into an arrangement that worked- for the most part.

Greg worked to keep Sherlock entertained and occupied with police cases, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the younger man. Greg settled into an authoritative figure in Sherlock’s life, but also gave parental advice that was often met with a skeptical scoff from the other man. He left the role of distanced sibling who still managed to look after his brother by honestly alarming means to Mycroft. 

It took Greg a while to navigate the complexities of his relationship with Sherlock. He had become a part of Sherlock’s life somewhat reluctantly at first, but he was certainly part of it now; yet there were still many times when Greg had no idea what to do with the man.

To his relief Sherlock did stay clean, and seemed to have left his years of drug use behind. He moved on to infuriate and drive Greg and his team crazy at crime scenes, while proving to be the eccentric genius Greg had known Sherlock could be. Once Sherlock joined Greg and consulted on cases his closing rate jumped exponentially as together they were able to close case after case. It was as if Sherlock was the final missing piece Greg and the police force had needed to become even better.

And while Greg and Sherlock did have their bad days (like when Sherlock picked the lock to his flat and ventured inside, or when Sherlock went off on his own and managed to nearly get killed yet somehow capture their suspect) it still worked, somehow.

Mycroft meanwhile continued to watch Sherlock from a distance through various methods available to him and also from visits with Gregory Lestrade. Mycroft watched over Sherlock as he had always done, but didn’t yet dare visit his brother in person. The close relationship they’d once enjoyed had completely disintegrated, and Sherlock made it obvious he did not want to see even a sign of Mycroft.

And, if he was honest with himself, Mycroft didn’t want to see how much Sherlock had changed or what had happened to him in the time when he hadn’t watched over his younger brother. Sherlock may no longer be using drugs but he was still in real danger, even with the DI looking after him closely.

When Mycroft finally decided to visit his brother, a year and three months into Sherlock’s tentative agreement with Lestrade, their visit went as poorly as Mycroft had expected.

Sherlock had said only a few words to him, spending the rest of the time scraping away at his violin or staring out the small, grime-smeared window of the cramped dingy flat Sherlock was occupying. Mycroft had offered several times by way of the DI and other means to find Sherlock a more suitable flat, but his brother had flatly refused. Sherlock had refused any help at all, suffering selective deafness.

What had been the worst of all was how Sherlock had completely ignored him, refusing to look or meet his eyes at all. All Mycroft had hoped for was validation that his younger brother was well and healthy. But Sherlock hadn’t even allowed him that.

His first visit had honestly been a disaster, and seemed to have done more harm than good. But Mycroft was a Holmes and therefore very persistent, especially with his visits and getting news from the DI.

It was an immense relief every time Lestrade called and assured him Sherlock was still clean and healthy. The DI even went so far as to making surprise drug busts at Sherlock’s flat, a constant annoyance to his brother.

No one else had ever gone so far for Sherlock, which went to prove the DI truly cared about Sherlock and his well-being. Even after all Sherlock had put Lestrade through.

 

But even with both Mycroft and Greg now looking after Sherlock, it felt as if something was still missing.

For the next two years Mycroft worried over his brother from afar, and Greg tried his best to keep Sherlock occupied and in line.   
But Sherlock still remained as eccentric and unpredictable as before, constantly risking his life, and didn’t appear to be about to calm down any time soon. He continued to live life his own way, refusing to let anyone too close.

 

Then, on an ordinary London day, Doctor John Watson- formerly of the RAMC- walked into a laboratory at St. Bart’s and met Sherlock Holmes.

The next day John Watson went to look at a flat with Sherlock, and an hour or so afterwards they visited a crime scene together.

John Watson, who, when confronted with Sherlock’s seemingly random inquiry of ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ didn’t recoil or become upset. Instead he had looked confused, and then intrigued. The first ever.

Who, when Sherlock asked- acting on impulse for the first time in years- if he wanted to see more of the war, hadn’t even hesitated before responding ‘oh god, yes.’

Anyone else, other people who were considered in their right minds by the general public, would have said no- would likely have been horrified by the question.

But not John Watson. He followed Sherlock down the stairs and out the door as quickly as his psychosomatic limp let him.

In the cab John had seemed nervous, feeling eager and confused, sitting next to Sherlock on the seat. It became enough of a distraction that Sherlock wasn’t able to focus on his mobile even in the silence. So he had asked, masking most of his irritation, for the questions John Watson was doing a poor job of holding back. This had prompted an entire flood of questions, ones the majority of the population could have thought of.

To Sherlock’s surprise he had felt a bit let down that John could possibly be not as extraordinary as he’d proved until then. In the lab Sherlock had been intrigued by the concept of a doctor who was also a soldier, so he had forgotten to keep as tight a rein on his deductions as he normally did. He had been rewarded with the one man in all of London he could stand as a potential flat mate.   
Then at Baker Street Sherlock found himself actually tidying his things because he didn’t want that to be the one reason John didn’t stay. John hadn’t said a word about it. So Sherlock had treated John to a glimpse of how he had known so much about John, sharing the observations that had spilled forth while watching John in the laboratory. But then Mrs. Hudson came in and Sherlock quickly stopped, confused that he actually wanted to share them with John.

He chose to believe that was the reason why, when John called him a private detective (yet reasoned the police didn’t consult amateurs), that instead of merely correcting John he was a consulting detective, Sherlock listed and explained all the observations he’d made about John to show him instead. He could have easily changed the topic of conversation, or stopped it all together. But neither of those options occurred to him before his mouth ran off on its own, explaining things to John. All of his observations spilled out in a rush almost as if it all wanted to be told. But that was ridiculous.

And at the same time his heart begged as it listened to his rambling words for John not to be another one to turn and run away. True, it hadn’t been his best idea to test John while they were in a cab on their way to a crime scene. First he wanted John to see what a crime scene was like before John left.

He sat there in the backseat of an ordinary London cab rattling off an entire string of deductions, more than he’d shared in years with anyone. And not only telling John, but explaining everything- every little detail about John’s life, his past, his brother, his phone.

Sherlock didn’t dare look at John; he kept his eyes on the mobile in his hand or out the window. He didn’t want to see the disgust or outrage forming on John’s face.

When he finally managed to close his mouth it was already too late. He had laid John’s entire life out before them. All he could do was continue staring out the window and wait for John to tell the driver to pull over.

Just when Sherlock was ready to demand John to say something just to break the tense silence, he did.

The words weren’t an insult or cutting remark like the ones that usually followed Sherlock’s deductions.

No, it was an exclamation of awe. John had called him brilliant.

Sherlock quickly turned to face John, wanting to see this unbelievable truth for himself.

There was no sign of deceit or falsehood on John’s face, none at all. It was completely open, and lit with honest awe.

He’d asked John to repeat himself, just to be certain he had heard correctly. And the truth was that not only had he heard John perfectly, John even complimented him again.

John said he was amazing, and extraordinary; two words Sherlock hadn’t heard directed at him in many, many years- possibly even ever. And John had only known him for a little more than an hour.

The rest of the cab ride had passed in silence. Sherlock tried not to betray just how surprised he had been by John’s praise, or how excited he was to show John a crime scene.

When the cab finally pulled up to the crime tape, Sherlock almost burst out of the cab from how eager he was. John followed him more slowly due to that damned limp, an annoyance Sherlock swore to take care of soon.

(Of course, he had gotten the gender of John’s sibling wrong, but that wasn’t too great of a mistake.)

The crime scene proved to be even better than he’d expected, and Lestrade was as helpful as usual. John had remained silent and let Sherlock work, instead of constantly interrupting and demanding answers. And while John had done little more than certify this was the work of the same serial killer the Yard had been chasing for months, it had been a wonderful new experience to have someone to talk to; John had actually been the one to put him on to pink case.

He hadn’t purposefully left John behind; he had just been riding the high of having a new piece of the puzzle to uncover and then slot into the larger picture. The pink case was what Sherlock knew would help him break this case wide open.

Sherlock only realized he’d acted unusual at all was when Greg rang to tell him so.

He’d been digging through a skip at the time, so it’d taken a while to find his mobile. Once he answered Lestrade had promptly begun to tease him about his new friend, pointing out especially that John was a doctor. Lestrade even suggested that Sherlock might have a bit of a crush.

(He didn’t, of course.)

It was all ridiculous, even if Sherlock knew Lestrade was only teasing him. But he was busy trying to find the case and didn’t have time to listen to Lestrade. So Sherlock promptly hung up on the DI.

(Looking back, he realized that may have been (part of) the reason for the surprise drugs bust.)

Then Mycroft kidnapped John right off the street and took him somewhere secluded for one of Mycroft’s ‘chats.’

Sherlock paced restlessly around Baker Street, livid with his brother for always poking his fat nose where it didn’t belong and somehow not being able to understand that Sherlock could take care of himself without any help from Big Brother. He half-expected John not to come back, even after Sherlock’s insistent texts.

But John hadn’t been put off at all by an overprotective and powerful older brother. When he walked in the door John had merely looked annoyed at having been kidnapped at all.

After that, Sherlock managed to successfully convince John to text a murderer (and the shock on his face when he’d realized had been incredibly amusing), to go with him to what proved to be an unsuccessful stakeout- but was a successful dinner- and then to run through London after a cab.

Sherlock had run through London after suspects before in the past years, but never with anyone at his side or anyone running beside him.

(Lestrade, usually minutes behind, didn’t count.)

That night he had John running with him through dark alleys, over rooftops, and around the maze of London streets. He had someone to call to to hurry up, to coax to keep pace with him, and to make John forget his limp and just jump.

His reward was the exhilarating feeling that rushed through him with every step; John’s ridiculous giggling after Sherlock’s comment ‘welcome to London’; and best of all, he seemed to have completely cured John’s psychosomatic limp.

From that point on, the night only became even better.

Somehow he made John laugh in the hall of Baker Street as they caught their breath, and then John grinned at him when he realized he’d left his cane behind. Neither had ever happened before, and likely no one else would have. Everyone else had always avoided his company. Yet here was John, who seemed to be enjoying himself.

(The surprise drugs bust was just a minor hitch, as well as the remarks dubbed as a ‘bit not good’ by John that Sherlock made to John and the few police officers.)

Then everything came together and the puzzle was solved with the final piece of the dead woman’s mobile, and Mrs. Hudson going on about a cab waiting for him.

Sherlock went off on his own because he needed to know; he needed to see with his own eyes just how the cabbie- a cabbie, how brilliant!- had orchestrated these murders. It was the same urge he had always been driven by- the thirst for knowledge and the need to solve every puzzle given to him.

The danger was just an added bonus.

In the room they ended in the cabbie was kind enough to show and explain everything; although the gun was just a touch over-dramatic. But it was brilliant, even if not to Sherlock’s own standards. Two pills, one poisoned the other not; the victims having to make a choice in a moment with a gun pointed at them; a 50/50 chance of survival.

Whoever the cabbies' benefactor was, this mysterious Moriarty, had done an excellent job of arranging this game. Sherlock suspected this would not be the last time he heard the name Moriarty.

And of course he wouldn’t have taken the pill. He wasn’t as reckless as that. Still, since the cabbie was shot, Sherlock would likely never know if he’d chosen the correct pill. Yet, he was still alive- which was good.

At first Sherlock had suspected one of the cabbies enemies, or his benefactor, had shot the cabbie. It was the most likely explanation.

But then outside, perching on the back of the ambulance with the eye-sore of a shock blanket, another explanation he hadn’t even thought of crashed down onto him.

Standing just beyond the police tape, hands stuffed inside the pockets of an oversized jacket, managing to blend into the background, was John.

John who had been a soldier, used to life-threatening situations, and who possessed a gun he didn’t think Sherlock knew about. The ex-soldier and the doctor who had just killed a man.

John had killed a man, for him.

It was something no one he had known before John would have ever done.

He and John had known each other barely twenty-four hours, yet John had just killed someone to save his life.

Sherlock had never imagined anyone would ever care enough for him to do such a thing. But it seemed John Watson was anything but ordinary or normal.

As they walked away from the crime scene, quietly giggling together, Sherlock reflected that John was the first person in his life he could truly call friend.

And, for the first time since his childhood, Sherlock finally felt content.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

the end


End file.
